


Of Cake and Calamity

by tenpointson



Series: The Calamity is Calling [1]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Asexual Character, By the Three Sheik has a Mouth, Classism, Cultural Differences, Euphamism, Explicit Language, Homophobia, Hyperbole, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Institutionalized Violence, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized racism, Male Sheik, Multi, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, Salt, Sarcasm, Slang, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Character, Unfortunate Implications, un-beta'd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-31 17:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 120,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15124238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenpointson/pseuds/tenpointson
Summary: Modern Zelda A.U. based off a nanowrimo project from 2017. Part One of a Series. Characters are aged up.It all started in a grocery store...





	1. Eau du Wizzrobe

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of the characters, places, or situations referenced within this work of fanfiction. Some meme inspiration. Chapters alternate P.O.V. between Sheik (odd) and Link (even).

So, there I was, minding my own business and trying not to get noticed. Just stay in line, keep my head down, buy the stupid fucking eggs and go home. Same as every other day, week, month, year, decade since the great fucking Calamity. Well, not the eggs part, but still. There’s no way in Demise’s fiery farts that I could eat an entire carton of eggs every fucking day. Gagging me with a moblin turd and tying me naked on the Witchfinder’s doorstep wouldn’t be as gross.

Not like I could afford a dozen eggs every day either, but that’s beside the point.

…where was I again?

Oh, yeah. Minding my own fucking business like the good little spook that I am. Ha. At least the lady in line in front of me didn’t tell her kids to go wait in the car, and the guy behind me was too buried in the latest series of Chirps from the G-man himself to be paying any attention to anything around him.  I know, too, from the way his t-shirt stretches across his chest and the logo of the martial arts academy that he thinks he‘s hot shit.  And he was.

Hot. Shit.

A big ol’ fresh steaming pile of it.  Just like the Chirps he was reading. Moving his lips ever so slightly to the words like the rest of the mouth-breathing puppets that hail to Ghirahim’s banner. I’m all for education, don’t get me wrong, but only if it has at least some basis in truth. Kinda goes with the spook thing. And his education did nothing of the sort. Bastard was even wearing a version of my people’s mark on his shirt as a great sacrilegious flag that screams entitled asshole, so I knew to keep my head down and shut up and to just get the eggs and go.  Safest for everyone.

Until the meteo wizzrobe decided to materialize.

There’s a literal fuckton of shit that burns in a grocery store. Wood. Paper. Fuck, oncoming spring parties means coal for barbeques. Clothing. Hair. People.

As projectiles, eggs are pretty good. Not that they do a lot of damage, or that the smell of burning egg is the next eau de parfume, but they fit well in a hand and fly straight and true when thrown.  Yeah, sure, that was supposed to be breakfast, but it only took lunch and then the next breakfast for the fucker to notice it was getting pelted and stop sending out the three flares of heat from its wand that seem to be the only spell that type of spirit can manifest.  Of course, that means it started looking for _me_ , but I can fucking dodge. A toilet paper display can’t, and burns _just_ like the stack of paper and cardboard that it is.

I burn too, but not as easily or as fast, and it has to hit me first.

Douche-nugget screams like a bitch as his hair-gel turns him into a Human…err, Hylian…candle, and I’d love to thank the Fierce Deity personally for that one, but I need to move or join him.  Unfortunately, there are more women, mothers, and children than there are tossers at this time of day, and they don’t deserve to sizzle and can’t run nearly as fast.  The lady ahead of me is smart, and abandons her cart to snatch up her kid and her toddler and bolt.  The cashier isn’t more than two steps behind her.

Still, too slow. It’s already getting unbearably hot, and the purely mechanical sprinklers do nothing to quench flames born of magic.

I think I can get a replacement for the dagger that the A.R.G. will confiscate as soon as the wizzrobe is down, and resign myself to a few months of nothing but instant noodles for a replacement. Probably some dumpster diving, if I’m honest with myself, even as I bring it out and slice my thumb just enough to drawn blood. If I had the time, I could do this the slow way and save myself the trouble, but the subfloor beneath the thing is melting. Scrawling the sigil to push my converter directly to the Silver Scale gauntlet’s catalyst instead of letting the transferences act properly makes my knees go weak and will leave the arm randomly cramping for days, but the radius my bubble gets is impressive.  Not a record-breaker, not even a personal best, but enough to inundate the ash of the toilet paper display, the aisle behind it, the tills four deep on both sides, and the wizzrobe. Completely.

It fizzles out and the core drops to the floor and shatters, its wand clattering to bounce beneath an abandoned cart. Soaked to the bone, I lean against the conveyor belt and wait to be arrested. The Auxiliary Royal Guard gets there almost before the Fire Brigade does. The second group isn’t really needed anymore, the first one I don’t really want to deal with. An “it’s complicated” relationship status between us would win understatement of the year with an award made of broken glass, salt, and duct tape.

I expected them to take my dagger.  It’s a weapon, even though there are box cutters that are more dangerous and I have a concealed carry permit. Din forbid a spook do anything even remotely dangerous in the general vicinity of the _real_ citizens of Hyrule. I don’t expect them to take my Silver Scale. They’re as ubiquitous as water bottles, for the exact same reason as water bottles, and yeah, mine may have been _slightly_ modified and I may have pushed more magic through it than any commercially available model is designed to bear, but come _on_.

The dick-juggling thunder-cunt that slams my head into the conveyor belt makes sure to pat me down more thoroughly than a five-rupee whore, and empties my wallet on the vegetable scale to pay for my eggs that I don’t get to take into the cruiser with me. Since my weapons aren’t hidden in my arse and the only thing I’m packing in my briefs is a dick, at least I get to keep the rest of my emergency tools when I’m thrown in a cell. Small mercies. It’s early enough in the day that the cement and steel box is mostly empty, and the only other two guys aren’t likely to do me damage.  One is too drunk to stand, and the other I recognize from Temple.

“Hey, Kafei.” I mutter as soon as the guards are engrossed in a game of Gummy Squares on the company desktop on company time.

“Never thought I’d see _you_ here.” He snorts back. “What’d you do, accidentally grope a granny when you were helping her cross the street?”

“Meteo wizzrobe in the grocery store.” I sigh, feeling the permanent chill of the cell already seeping through my jeans and making my knees ache alongside my arm.

“No shit.” His eyes go wide. “You read about the lionel on the 401?” He asks, and I nod.  The lionel on the 401, the chu-chu infestation in Faron Park, the wolfos at Daphnes International…I know about them all.

“They’re getting bolder.” More and more remnants of Demise’s Oath are appearing everywhere. At this rate, there might even be a Hero.  I never wanted to be alive to see that. Pretty sure none of the old blood do. Pretty sure most sane people, too, even if they don’t believe. But when a vast and seething evil threatens Hyrule…

…it sure as fuck doesn’t matter how the vote went. Truth _is_.

Kafei has nothing to say to that. There’s really nothing he could say, and if he tried it would just be stupid or placating or trite. He’s talented, so maybe all three. Silence is golden. I keep it close, especially after dark falls and the holding cell starts to fill up.  Keep my head down, pull my hood up, stick to a corner in the shadows. I’m small, and skinny, which is about the only good thing that comes from wondering where and when my next meal will come from.  I can hide better. Kafei can’t, but he doesn’t need to try as hard.

His eyes are a dark enough red to look like a mahogany brown in the dim florescent light, and he’s as tall as a Human. A tall Human. He’s not broad, not yet, but if he keeps working at it, that too will come. The latest trends for the fashionable teens include dyeing their hair all manner of silvers and violets, so even that genetic marker doesn’t really stand out.  He still looks a bit spook, but not enough for the bigots to chase after him when there are easier targets out there.  Like me. 

His heat next to me on the bench that’s been bolted to the floor is a comfort.  The worst he’ll do is mock me, maybe tell _bedstemor_ Purah, but that would mean admitting he was here too. Some of the other men that are brought in over the course of the next few hours would be happy to kill me, even with the A.R.G.’s cameras running. After Paya’s body was found in a Senator’s son’s trunk, we all know that justice will be…lenient…for them. The fact that no one knows which Senator, let alone the name of his son, and everyone knows Paya’s name and what was done to her both before and after she died, says a lot more than simple lenience would be provided.

Bail is another chunk of money I don’t have, haven’t a chance of getting even if I was allowed to call someone, and I resign myself to begging for notes in a mass e-mail that I might be able to get Honey to send. Everyone likes Honey, and she’s flighty enough that she needs notes regularly anyway.  I like her. She’s nice, and doesn’t try to make my life any more of a nightmare just because she could. If I spam the class myself, I might get pulled into a disciplinary meeting with the Dean, special student status be damned.

I can’t risk it. I’ve worked too hard and had too many people help me to just go belly up.

“Sheik Kaya Lurelin!” The bilge sack in a uniform that would fit an exercise ball bellows, using my title as if it were a name because literacy obviously isn’t his strongest suit and making all the bigoted racists in the cell light up like Solstice lights. Not too bright individually, but glaring together.

Kafei jumps back like I’ve burned him when I stand, and I approve. It looks like he just realized he’s sitting next to a festering sore on a mangy goat’s asshole, and there’s no way with a name and face like mine that I’m anything but spook.  It’ll keep the others off of him for as long as he’s here, and they don’t have a lot of time to get me on the way to the door by Officer Land Whale. A few extra bruises to match the ones on my face, and I’m free to go, left on the curb like tomorrow’s trash, my Silver Scale, empty wallet, converter, and I.D. in a paper bag dropped next to me.

I pick it up, and start walking.  There’s a long way to go if I want to shower before the rest of the dormers, and I’ll need to if I want to be at least almost presentable for class.  Not that I want to go to class on an empty stomach and no sleep, but it’s better than the alternative. Now that I have my converter back, I can use it and avoid the Witchfinders both, since fucking with the processing system is easy enough. Feeding back exactly what I put into it means the Shadows make sure that no one sees me wandering the streets after midnight in the middle of the week. A warmer night and a couple ATM shelters, the hutch of a neighbourhood Church, and a few encased bus stops see that I don’t freeze. My key card lets me into the dorms just before dawn.

Just in time. There isn’t space in the dorm room for the bed, desk, and dresser each boarder is provided, let alone an altar, but I make due. I’m not allowed fire, either, so no incense or candles.  I can’t afford fruit regularly, and it’s too early in the year for wild flowers. I just have me.  My devotions and my prayers. I give them to Her freely, and still my heart to listen in case She wants anything specific.  Most days She doesn’t. Today She does. I’ll know what when the time comes, but even that isn’t well defined. It could happen in an hour or in a year…but I’ll know.

Dawn had passed, and I can hear the guy above me moving.  The ones on either side, below, and across the hall will start soon.  Upstairs guy isn’t bad, a Philosophy Major without so much as a flicker of magical ability. He always goes for a run before coming back to shower.  If I go now, the showers should be mostly empty. If I’m lucky, anyone there will already be showering, and I can find one myself before anyone else arrives. I’m not so stupid as to take anything with me that I’d have to leave in the open, and hang my towel over the shower door to show it’s occupied and hide by whom. The plastic tub keeps my clean clothing dry, and gives me a little shelf for my soap and razor even if it takes most of the floor space and means I have to step carefully.

Not for the first time, I wonder how much using the razor to cut more than hair would hurt, staring at the gleaming, sharp edge like it has an answer.  If I could get deep enough to make it count. If anyone would notice before the stink made everyone notice.  If anyone would care, really. But it would make too many weasel mannered twat nuggets happy. I can live for spite.

Fuck does it hurt my face to stand under the spray and wash. The bruises are nice and dark already, blue and black and circled with a red brighter than my eyes. I know I’m fastidious, know I don’t have the resources to be, and that I’m scrubbing too hard and too much for what is actually on my skin. The fist sized bruise just above my kidney will make sitting in class a bitch, and the lines around my wrist look like some kind of demented sleeve tattoo designed by a toddler and inked by a blind novice.  The smaller ones mean I’m a mass of discomfort by the time I get back to my dorm, but I managed to avoid both the racist bigots and the cringe worthy S.A.G.E.s. out to save the world without any organization or a plan. Success. Yay.

With my converter layered between my undershirt and the t-shirt that only has one small pinhole on the back, it should stay put unless I decide to take up parkour again between now and Anatomy 284. My arm wraps cover the bruising nicely. The Silver Scale fits over top like it’s supposed to, and only then do I see the receipt for my bail. Paid in full, with every neat little box checked and filled in, paperwork as tidy as the penmanship isn’t. Something’s…nagging about the address. I should know it, and can’t place it, and if I don’t get going then I’ll be late, but after class is done for the day you can bet I’ll find out exactly who I-write-like-a-two-year-old-with-pudding-so-no-legible-name is.

Binding my legs takes next to no time, and I shove my feet into my runners without bothering to undo the laces.  Pretty sure if I did they’d snap faster than Midna Crepesculo’s temper. I’ve got notifications of sixteen new Chirps from her alone, and spend most of Heterodoxy of the Early Middle Kingdom 322 wishing I dared read them. The rest of it I spend actually paying attention, as Professor Owlan knows his stuff…and not just the crap he’s supposed to be teaching.  Not that most of the class _gets_ that, but I know and I’m one of the few that can see the frustration he keeps beneath the fear.  Someone burned a Triforce on his front lawn a few years back, and he hasn’t really gotten over it.

I can understand that. Really, I do. I just don’t have the option of hiding from it like he does.

“Fucking spook.” The elbow to the ribs between classes eats into my Nayru’s Love enough that I’ll have to recast it after Anatomy, but doesn’t do any damage. I can’t tell who did it, either, and the frustration gnaws at me like a dodongo on a bone all through a brief introduction and review of the circulatory system of a Zora. The striation of musculature required to maintain neutral pressure as they transverse breathing air to breathing water keeps me busy scrawling notes and sketches and diagrams until the end of class. My converter hums as I feed it enough magic for a reinforcement of my protections and brave the halls once more.

Whoever thought putting Tutsuwa Nima in charge of a class was a good idea should be hamstringed and forced to sit through all of his lectures.  All of them. Without internet access. I don’t give two queefs what he’s researching or how good he is at it, the man is _terrified_ of public speaking and couldn’t create a lesson plan with a template and a textbook, and I finished reading the textbook before the class even started. Since I’ve gotten the top mark for two of the three quizzes and the midterm, he ignores me pulling out my phone. Fair deal, really.

Midna’s first chirp confuses the fuck out of me, but then, it’s really the last in a thread.

+The pound cake tastes like cake!+

Scrolling to the start seems like a good idea.

+THIS IS MOBLIN SHIT D:<\+ Is followed by a link to a video that’s nearly forty-five minutes long and obviously security camera footage. Classes are an hour, but Farore’s tits that’s too long to even think about watching. Fortunately, amid cries of corruption and treachery that are typical of anyone in power and Midna’s usual diatribe, there are a series of other videos all less than five minutes to avoid having to pay upload fees.  The one with the most likes goes last, but I queue them all up and remind myself not to snort or laugh too loudly. Professor Nima doesn’t need that crushing his already non-existent confidence.

By the third one I know the blood has drained from my face.  By the seventh I feel sick.

Stupid, Kaya-bitch. Dumb as a box of hair sometimes, aren’t you?

“Holy shit.  Holy _shit!_ You getting this?!” The uploader, one PompIsBomb, can barely be heard over his buddy’s excited yelping and the screams of Hot Shit as his hair goes up in so much smoke.

“Some sort of magic fire monster, Savingway Grocery on 31st Street East, Castletown, seventeen twenty two.” PompIsBomb says, giving the place and time, phone camera remarkably steady.

“The actual _fuck_!” Buddy squeals. “What the actual fuck!?”

“Wake up, straighten up, and grow a backbone already.” PompIsBomb growls. “We’ve got a…thiny!..,to smash!”

“Uh, but…”

“If you’re scared, hide, and watch as I alone save the Savingway from this foul monster!”

“Are those…eggs?” Another, shorter buddy, whom I shall christen Piggy, grunts.

“What?”

“Ha! There’s a spook throwing _eggs_ at it!” Buddy laughs.

“Where?” The phone camera tilts and blurs, the processor unable to automatically focus on anything, and then when it does I really wish it hadn’t. I look…pretty pathetic, all things considered, and a little too much like the movies would have people think all Sheikah look. My hoodie’s hood puts my eyes in the shadow, and just happens to be a dark grey.  It used to be black, but that was at least two owners ago. Jeans, runners, bandages, long hair bound up. Spook-red eyes. 

I hadn’t realized they glow when I cast.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Buddy is whimpering as the wizzrobe’s core falls and shatters, and the video ends. There are four more in queue. I pause the playlist and try not to panic in public. If any of them show me getting arrested, then goodbye scholarship, special student status, and any hope I ever held of actually doing my sworn duty despite…setbacks.

Grand Master Impa will be so disappointed, or at least she would be if she knew I was still alive and gave half a dead sewer rat’s ass. _Bedstemor_ Purah will just smack me and call me nicer things than I call myself. Mostly though, I just try not to shake or throw up or pass out in class.

It takes Professor Nima stumbling over the caption of the same slide – taken directly from the textbook I might add – for the fifth time for me to actually work up the courage to start the video series up again. The one Midna’s linked under the Chirp +Auxiliary Brutality!+ shows not only my arrest, but Officer Happy Hands groping me.  Great. Just what I needed, to be another spook on the list of the S.A.G.E.s rallying banners, _and_ asked to leave Hyrule University with only a year and a half left of my Bachelor’s.

Being fisted by a Goron would hurt less than this does. Screw not panicking in public, now it’s all I can manage not to cry as I panic as quietly as I can until class is over. Head down, shut the fuck up Kaya. Bottle it. Take it down. Wait for the other students to file out. Wait for Professor Nima to leave. There’s no class following, I know since I’ve eaten my lunch when I could afford one in this room instead of facing the nauseating black terror of being spook in the cafeteria. That means I can wait until the halls have cleared a bit before bolting to the eighth floor of the Mamamu Yan Memorial Library.

Most people stay on the seventh floor or lower, since the eighth is an addition and the elevator doesn’t reach it. Nearly all of the books and scrolls are in cases or sealed chambers, none of them are in modern Hyrulean, and only the obsessed seek them out. Usually it’s to read source material, or just to see the object of their fascination, but some are like me. We come here because it’s a great place to hide from a world that doesn’t really like us too much.

Shad’s the librarian on duty today, and he doesn’t even look up from his phone as I weasel my way to the back of the stacks where individual study pods wait.  Where I can spend the better part of an hour having a meltdown, and then actually log in to check and see how bad the damage is.

Midna’s popular, has been ever since her hit show “Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms for the Clinically Insane” got a third season, so I knew it would be bad. PompIsBomb had a couple thousand followers before, but broke 50K while I was listening to the pulse of a Zora hibernating underwater. ChirpingCrickets and Midna are friends, and while I really don’t like the amblypygi videos they sometimes post, I could do without any videos of arachnids of any kind honestly, they’ve done a lot in getting people interested in preserving insect habitat. They, of course, have just over a million followers. Midna has two million, four hundred thousand something.

Good fucking shit there’s going to be a news report on _three_ major stations at five.

I’m so thankful I haven’t eaten anything, because this kind of trepidation usually has me retching. Not that I’ve destroyed my entire academic career with a single spell before, but anxiety is a familiar friend. The rapid beat of my heart, shallow breaths, tension.  Wanting to either run or lash out at whatever presents a target. Dull patches in my vision.  Gaps in memory. Lost time. Years of it. There is no way in the Dark Realm I’ll make it to either to Scripturgy 418 or the track. I’m not sure there’s even a point in my going, if I’m going to “voluntarily” withdraw for disturbing the peace and breaking the terms and conditions of my scholarship as soon as a Dean or a Professor can hunt me down.

Might as well get it over with. At least, once it’s done, I won’t be worried about it anymore. Go to my dorm and wait, since they wouldn’t do it in front of a class.  I…hope they wouldn’t do it in front of a class. Pack my shit, not that there’s a lot. Call the Grand Master if her number hasn’t changed in the past decade.  Fuck it, should do that first.  Should have done it already. Dorm, call, pack, shower the stink of fear-sweat off. Depending on how the call goes, see if my razor is actually as sharp as it looks. It’s a plan.

My legs feel like the paper that is wrapped around straws. Hollow, flimsy, supported by next to nothing and easily snapped. They shake as I stumble down the stairs, across the seventh floor and Majora’s Wrath people are staring at me already. Slam my palm on the call button. Shove in and close the door before anyone else can get the tiny metal box that shakes and trembles almost as bad as I do. Totter out of the library, towards the dorm and press against the Archaeology building for balance.

Fucking _Calamity_.

The Scholars Against Genocidal Extremism, or S.A.G.E.s, didn’t fucking wait at all. There’s a full protest stretching across the streets leading both to and from the bus mall with signs and placards and pickets and…fucking balloons. _Really_?! Lana Bianca and Cia Noires have megaphones, though they aren’t using them at the moment. The cousins have mellowed in the last year, which means they’ve only been arrested twice.  Of course, it’s only the second month of the year, but that’s half of last year’s tally at this point. Today might make up the difference. They’re as Hylian as they come, rich as fuck, and as spoiled as egg salad after a week in the sun. Collectively, they’ve taken it upon themselves to free all oppressed peoples from their shackles by whatever means necessary.

As long as nothing inconveniences them, that is. Of course, their Kokiri gardener still gets paid less than minimum wage, and most of Cia’s mother’s jewelry line comes from a company that has outsourced their mine labor to a company that pays the Goron miners less than that, but who am I to judge?

That’s right, the spook they’re supposedly protesting for. Like I give a shit. Lana even calls me that. Spook. Like Sheikah is such a dirty word. Like there aren’t mis- and malformed versions of our Eye on most of the fucking picket signs. Some in pink glitter. Fuck me sideways, I can’t do this.

Being up all night in a holding cell, no food, no sleep, anxiety thick enough to choke an Ordon goat herd, and a series of bruises over most of my body makes grey spots dance in front of my eyes, and I cling to the wall harder like it’s going to hold me up in turn. My arm throbs and twitches. If I faint, I’ll probably be trampled at my own fucking shindig, and wouldn’t _that_ just lay the fodder for a full scale riot.

“Hey, you okay?” A cheerful baritone asks.  I didn’t hear him approach, and turning so quickly makes me lose the battle to stay upright.  I win the one to stay conscious, and wish I hadn’t. He…caught me.  Worse, he caught me like a damsel in a B grade romance, like he’s practised sweeping girls literally off their feet. Slick as snot on a doorknob. “Obviously not. Let’s get you away from this crowd.”

If the grey spots were any less prominent, I’d tell him exactly where he should go, and how, precisely, to get there. As it is, I just do my best not to barf on his fancy pine and chartreuse cable knit sweater as he carries me away from the noise and the turmoil and the pink glitter Eyes. Campus security doesn’t even slow in their stride as they run towards the imminent riot, ignoring the Hylian carting off a spook entirely. I’m…pretty sure he’s not going to murder me, but not completely. Not that I would protest, it would save me the trouble, but it would give the S.A.G.E.s even more bit-biting froth to spew so they can avoid actually _doing_ anything remotely useful.

He hauls me past the Archaeology building, past the library, past the sky-bridge to Engineering, and to the parking lot. Maybe he will murder me, after all. Assisted suicide? He’s strong, either way, to be able to carry me that far. Not that I weigh what I should, but not every textbook can be found in the library and I _need_ to maintain my G.P.A. to hold my scholarship. Textbooks are expensive. Or rather, I needed to maintain my G.P.A. It’s not really a problem anymore, not with the pop and bang and flash of fireworks, bombchu flares, and light spells dancing against the clouds in the sky.

He leans me against an old Epona hatchback and scrambles in the driver’s side to drop the back bench, then scoots to the hatch to pop it open. I do my very best not to fall over and am mostly successful. The Epona catches most of my weight, and has the slanted sides that were fashionable when I was four. He lays an old ratty blanket slightly more worn than the one on my bed over the lot, and opens a tackle box he keeps close and in easy reach. The lid’s clean, and so is what’s inside.

Knife, condoms, twine. Perfect. I always wondered how Paya felt.

“When you’re done, can you make sure no one finds my body?” I request. If it weren’t for the angle of the hatchback’s side, there’s no way I’d be standing. There’s no point. His lips tighten, shoulders tense, eyes narrow. He’s insulted, and I relax. He’s done this before, then. Given when Gumi disappeared, it might even be recent experience. We kind of look alike, skinny blond spooks, so maybe kidnapper guy has a type. At least I won’t have to talk to Grand Master Impa.

“Come on, then.”  He growls, and okay, I like that and I really shouldn’t. If he’s hoping I’m a virgin though, he’s gonna be in for a world of disappointment. With more than a little help from his strong hands and stronger back I get as comfortable as I can in the open hatch of a decades old car on a ratty blanket in the cool spring air.  He’s got the Epona’s heater going, and aside from where the back of my knees are cold and bent over his bumper, it’s…nice.  Nicer than the ditch outside of city limits where I paid for my ride to Castletown, at least. Definitely nicer than the toilet at Ikana Bar where I last got fucked.

He turns to his tackle box and flips through the plastic wrappers on the condoms, probably checking expiry dates, and I undo my pants. I can’t pull them off, not without sitting up, and now that I’m lying down and warm and don’t have to worry about anything I’m almost giddy. Dizzy, definitely, enough that sitting up would be bad. A little scared, but compared to even half an hour ago it’s nothing. It’ll all be over soon.

“Oh, Goddess!” He yelps, covering his eyes and dropping the top shelf of the tackle box onto the dirt of the parking lot. There’s a standard simple first-aid kit, granola bars, and a pack of jelly beans on the second layer inside. “What are you doing?!”

So there is a virgin here. Din knows it’s not me. Still, he’s cute now that I can actually see more than the side of his ear and the bottom of his jaw. Idealized Hylian. Dark blond hair, dark blue eyes, light dusting of freckles over the bridge of his nose, firm body that makes me want to lick him, just a little, to see how he tastes. 

“Thanking you for helping me.” I breathe, and spread my knees further apart.

“I haven’t done anything!” He protests, and grabs at the granola and first aid kit. “You nearly passed out standing up, and are so skinny I’m surprised you could stand in the first place.”

“Thanks.” I mutter, interrupting him with sarcasm thick enough to spread like the fancy peanut butter I can sometimes snitch from the cafeteria after hours if the staff forgets to lock the cabinets.

“Eat this. Rest. Then I’m taking you out for some real food.” He insists, shoving the granola in my face, already opened. Definitely cute, but so fucking weird. What’s he planning? The granola bar pushes past my lips to rub against my teeth, and to get him to fucking stop that shit, I bite.

It’s sweet. Sugary as a candy bar, but not as texturally uninspired. Normally I’d be choking on that much refined carbohydrate, but right now it’s nearly bliss. He feeds me the whole thing, one bite at a time, then does the same with a juice box.  And it’s real juice, not some fruit flavored drink. As the calories hit my blood stream I notice more and more things about my surroundings, and do my best to discretely do up my pants.

He’s not going rape and murder me.  Nayru knows he probably wouldn’t even spank me if I bent over and asked for it. The dagger is a filet knife, to go with the rest of the fishing gear, rod, net, twine and ice box included. He probably uses the blanket to sit on, and the granola if he doesn’t catch anything. The first aid kit hasn’t been used for anything more severe than a poked finger or barked knuckles.

“So, I know who you are, but you probably don’t have any idea who I am, do you?” He asks as I suck the last of the orange juice from the corner of the box. I narrow my eyes, which probably isn’t as threatening as I hope, since I’m holding the juice with both hands like a toddler and still more than a little unsteady.

“Talk.” I demand.

“You’re Sheik Kaya Lurelin. You’re the one who took out the meteo wizzrobe at the Savingway.” He nods to himself, like he’s some kind of genius for figuring that shit out when my face is literally all over the internet and news. The bruises are fresh, but it doesn’t take much to look past them.

“So you can read. Good for you.” I grouse. “What do you want from me?”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.” He frowns.

“Great. Fine. I’m good. Thanks for the juice.”  Sitting up _is_ a mistake, and my body corrects that decision instantly even as my head tells me I’m an idiot for trying.  Ratty as the blanket is, it’s softer than the dirt. Thank Hylia for small favors.

“You’re _not_ okay.”  He observes. Brilliant deduction there. Now that I have a granola bar in my stomach I actually have something to vomit on him if he tries anything. “Just, rest. You’re safe here.”

Like I haven’t heard that before.

Like I have a choice. Yeah, I probably could roll over. Not the way I want to, because he’s _hot_ , but to demonstrate that I know he’s lying. Babe magnet doesn’t even realize he is though, so there’s no point. Closing my eyes helps, and focusing on my breathing. In for a count of four, hold, exhale, hold. Repeat until calm, or at least capable.

“I’m Link von Hestu.”  He says after another series of bombchu blasts echo from the bus mall, and fucking shit that’s maggots on a blue-waffle bad. Thank Din I didn’t hit him.

“Earl Lincoln Fitzherbert von Hestu the fourth.” I correct.  If he’s going to use my title, I’m sure as shit going to use his.

“Link.” He insists, and I remember the tantrum he threw to get people to call him that. Sure, he was six, but it was spectacular.  The part of me that’s entertained by sheer stubbornness admired the brat for it. The part of me that’s logical and cognizant of social consequence wishes desperately to have been left behind and trampled by Lana and Cia’s minions.

“My hero.” I drawl, for lack of anything better to do. He _has_ practised sweeping women off their feet. Though they haven’t announced anything, he and Princess Tetra are definitely either remarkably close and not at all body-shy friends, or they’re courting. HBN, RNN, and HPBC all speculate courting, but like the rest of the country I’ve seen the videos of their public outings, and doubt it. Not enough to discount the rumors entirely, but enough to say that if there is courting happening, it’s not driven by romance. Love, sure, but nothing to write a ballad about.

The bell-curve of hierarchies guarantees that those at either end don’t really get that luxury.  He needs to get married and have kids for dynastic succession, just like Princess Tetra does, and they _are_ friends. Spooks like me have to find a partner or two or three for survival.

“Here. Lift your legs up a bit.” He says, cautious. He hasn’t touched me directly since I opened my pants for him. A gentleman. Technically a knight, with a peerage. Goddesses.  I obey him, not needing the Grand Master to know I’ve refused a direct order on top of everything else, and he closes the hatch.  Walks to the driver’s side, gets in, buckles up. “Either keep your head down or buckle in.”

I keep my head down. After the last 24 hours, I need the practice. I’m not sure when I fall asleep.


	2. It Takes Two To Kidnap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the first even chapter, and thus, Link's P.O.V.  
> Picking up where chapter one finished.

"He fell asleep before I made it out of the parking lot.” I whisper, not wanting to wake him up. Telma hums softly into the microphone and I hear the kids coming in, just home from their half-day of pre-school. There’s a bit of jostling and some shuffling noises, but she doesn’t drop the phone or the connection.

“Take him somewhere public then, hon, and not a real restaurant.  A pub at best.” She tells me.  I grimace.

“He’s so skinny, he needs an actual meal. A month of meals.” I protest.

“More, likely.”  She sighs, and I know that tone.  I’m about to get a lecture for not thinking things through, though how feeding a starving person isn’t thinking things through is beyond me. It’s an easy fix to a simple problem. I’m right, and the lecture starts as I pull onto the freeway. It doesn’t end until after I’ve been parked in a 24 hour diner’s lot for a good eight minutes.

She has a point.  A number of points, really.  Good ones. Some of them I can’t do anything about now. Some of them I can. Some of them would involve murdering half the Senate, blackmailing a third, and deposing the king, so they’re not going to happen.  Not tonight, at least, and not on my watch.

Still, there are things I can do, so I should do them.  Rousing the elegant, delicate man sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted in the back of my Epona is the first one. After Renado sent me the video footage, the bruise covering almost half his face isn’t a surprise, but it still looks painful. That’s not why I don’t want to touch him, though. Or at least, not the whole reason. It’s a part of it, sure, and I’m stalling.

Goddess. What is this? I don’t know where this reaction to him is coming from.

“Sheik.”  I call, and touch his shoulder. It’s not hard enough to be called a shake, just…pressure, really, but he jumps up as though I’ve hit him with a thunder wand. The roof of my Epona gives a dull thunk against his head for his efforts, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. It’s funny, but I know he wouldn’t appreciate it. I wait for his shoulders to relax and for him to turn before exhaling.

“Hero.” He’s amused. It doesn’t really show on his face, but his voice is thick with it. I’m not, but if it makes him feel a little bit safer with me to call me names, then he can call me whatever he wants. Since I technically kidnapped him, it’s not worth fighting over.

“I…ah. Do you like pancakes? Or lasagna? Maybe chicken fingers?” I ask, waving towards the electric sign glowing brightly even midday. His lips twitch before he clambers over the folded down seat and into the front. There’s not a lot of space, and he almost steps on my thigh. His braid hits me in the face, but I don’t say anything about it and wait for a response.

“So is this a date?” He drawls, red eyes glinting. Dangerous. Tetra is gonna kill me if I don’t call her immediately…but that doesn’t sound too bad. He’s…interesting. Gorgeous. Terrifying, but I know that _that_ reaction isn’t based on anything he’s said or done.  Until he gives me a reason to be scared of him, I won’t give in to that little voice screaming at me to run away. Until he gives me an indication either way, I won’t do anything about the way his presence stirs something beneath my belt, because that’s even more confusing than the rest of it.

“One sec.” I tell him, and send an emergency text.

=got a fish on the line=  

=omg srsly?!?!?1 O:= Comes back less than ten seconds later, and I can feel my face heat.

=ya. catch and release?=

=reel her in, still have icebox?= She asks, and that’s fair. I can introduce them if this goes beyond tonight.

=will do o7 I’ll scale him first= I send back, grinning, and put my phone on silent and in my pocket before she can respond.  I can feel it vibrating against my thigh before I risk looking at the Savingway Sheikah sitting shotgun next to me. Swallow so I can talk around my suddenly dry mouth.

“Sure, a date.” I agree, see his pupils dilate, hear the indrawn breath. I can’t tell if it’s fear or interest or both, and get out of the car instead of staring at him like I want to.

I wasn’t anticipating this.

I mean, I love Tetra. She’s incredible, driven, beautiful, smart, and everything I’ve ever thought I wanted. I know we’ll get married someday, probably in the next five to eight years, and it’ll be great. Until then though, we’re free to explore, as long as everybody stays informed and aware. She’s the one who introduced me to Malon, and Malon was the one that thought Niko and I would make a cute couple. I wasn’t really interested, then Niko declined and came out as asexual in one awkward swoop. Haven’t had a real opportunity since, though Tetra’s had two other girlfriends and we both still see Malon when she’s in town.

It might be the thrill of danger, and something forbidden that makes me consider him, and that’s not fair to him. As exotic as he is compared to the girls I usually like, he’s still just another student going to the same school I am. Until my brain gets that, I won’t let my hands do anything more than open the door for him. My other body parts don’t even get to enter the equation.

I will be a gentleman, even if he’s very much not a lady. Not at all, in any way, shape, or form.

Why am I reacting to him like this?

He walks a step behind me to my right and it makes me twitch to not be able to see him because he’s quiet and – just like what seems like the rest of the entire world - I’ve seen the videos of what he did in the Savingway. The size of the water bubble alone wasn’t spectacular. Better than average, yeah, but he’s Sheikah, so that’s to be expected. There’s a reason the Witchfinders seek out deregulated magic. No one wants another Calamity. His Silver Scale shouldn’t have been able to produce that much water that quickly, no matter how much magic he sunk into his converter.

Thus, Renado calling Telma to wake me. Being called to the A.R.G. station at two in the morning and told to bring my wallet. Posting bail for him, despite Constable Kohga’s objections, and waiting for what seemed like forever, only to be told he’d been released nearly an hour ago, immediately after he’d been bailed.

He’s looking at me strangely, and I shake my head to clear it and sit at the table the hostess seated us at, despite all but two of the booths being free. We’re after lunch and before even the senior’s supper rush, and our waitress is clearly inconvenienced by it. There’s only one section open, and we’re entirely across the restaurant from it. It takes her almost twelve minutes to come over to us, and that’s spent in uncomfortable silence with him staring at me and me trying to look anywhere else.

“What’d’ya want?” She grumbles, a far cry from the type of service I’m accustomed to.  Not that I frequent these places, but even fast food workers are more amiable than that.

“Menus would be nice, and water.” I say as politely as I can. Maybe diners don’t provide those to all guests? I don’t know.

“Oh, _oh,_ yes sir!” She blushes, bows, bows again, and scurries off. Hopefully to get both items. Sheik is still watching me, calculating and silent. I break down and watch him back, and try to look like I’m not.  He smirks, and I know I’ve failed. Failure doesn’t make me stop. Never has. Never will.

Our waitress comes back faster than I’ve heard her move and puts two laminated menus on the table before setting my water down, bright yellow slice of lemon bobbing in the ice, and rushing off again. Sheik takes the menus and hands me one, scanning the other with half an eye on the contents and the other half watching the staff and patrons.

I had lunch at noon, so I’m not really hungry.  It’s awkward to eat alone, though, especially if you’re with someone, so I check out the appetizers and desserts. Nothing on the menu is more than twenty rupees, and I doubt he’s going to order a steak dinner at two in the afternoon. Not that he could, it’s only served after five.

Uncomfortable minutes pass, but I wait for him to put the menu down before I do.

“So, what are you studying?” I break the ice with a relatively neutral question, just like Chamberlain Telma taught me to.

“Formulaic Aetherial Defense, with a minor in Healing Runes. You?” So he can hold a basic conversation.  Better than my last blind date already.

“Modern History major, haven’t decided on a minor yet though.  Maybe Ethics?” I muse, and he laughs.

“Seriously? I thought you’d be more into Psychology, or, I don’t know, Economics.”

“Because of my father?” I ask, blinking. “I barely know him.” I’m lucky if I see him anywhere aside from on a screen, and since I turned ten that hasn’t even happened directly.

“The Economics, yeah.” He nods. “Though I can see Ethics, with your girlfriend.”

“Are you ready to order, sir?” The waitress saves me from having to respond to that one by interrupting, leaving Sheik to wonder.  Until we get engaged, he can keep wondering, just like everyone else.

“I’ll get the Stuffed Mushrooms.” I say, pointing to the appropriate item.

“Anything else?” She chirps as I hand her my menu.

“Sheik?” I ask, deliberately making her acknowledge his presence. 

“Just some fries, and a water as well, please.” He asks, keeping his head down and voice soft.

“Fine.” She rips the menu from his hands and disappears before I can say anything, but he doesn’t move.

“You should have ordered a full meal.” I chide, unable to keep the frown off my face, and he laughs again.  This one isn’t a happy sound.

“So I can get sick? I don’t know about you, Hero, but I know better than to get anything that much bigger than my stomach.” Telma’s warnings come back, and I flush. I’d…totally forgotten that. He’s a grown man, he can make his own decisions. “Besides, even if I did and just ate what I could, there’s a better than likely chance my order will be burned, raw, spit in, or contain more than a few short and curlies. At least the fries will just be cold, burned, reused, or all three.”

“…short and curlies?” I’m disgusted by the rest of it, but that’s a term I don’t know.

“Pubic hair.” He raises an eyebrow, and I can feel my face heat even as my stomach roils.

“What? That’s disgusting! How…”

“I’m spook, Hero. You may not have noticed.” His words, hissed soft and low, shut me up right quick. What do I even say to that? Of course? The proper term is Sheikah? I’m not blind? Is there anything I _can_ say to that, without sounding like a complete idiot or a complete bigot?

No. Not really. The silence between us grows, and I want to bite something in frustration. Yeah, fine, Renado sent me to trail him. Practise, he said, for diplomacy, with the implied understanding that if Sheik’s unregulated, I should squeal. I got distracted when he basically fainted in my arms, and then horrified by how thin he is. I want to help…but I’m not sure I can. I’m not sure he wants me to, or if he thinks I’m mocking him. I’m not, but…I don’t know what to do.

It’s an uncomfortable feeling.

“You know what? I’ll just go.” He sighs, standing up. “Thanks for the ride, Lord Korokshire.” When he bows, I can see the prominent ridge of his spine, the hollows of his collarbones. Unacceptable. This is entirely unacceptable.  All of it.

“Sit down.” I growl at him, regretting my tone before I use it and knowing that anything less won’t stop him. My demand is met with instant compliance, and that stings.  I…want to be his friend.  I don’t know if he has any. I sigh. “I’m…doing this wrong.  I’m sorry.” I apologize.

He’s shaking again. Damn. I don’t…I didn’t mean…except I did. If he hadn’t sat, I probably would have grabbed him to keep him from leaving. The way he absolutely refuses to meet my eyes again makes me wonder if I should have just let him go.

“Here you go!” The waitress twitters, putting eight mushroom caps covered in melted cheese in front of me. She doesn’t say anything to him, but puts a glass of water and a plate of fries down on the other side of the table and stands there to gloat as Sheik flinches. I can’t see why, but given what he said he expected, it’s bad. His water has no ice or lemon, and looks…cloudy. Greyish-brown. It’s revolting. I stand up, and catch a glimpse of the messily scrawled ketchup words on his fries.

Cold rage fills me.  It’s not the first time, won’t be the last, and happens often enough that I don’t think, just act.

Snap a picture of his meal, careful to crop him from it. Panorama the staff. Take his cold hand in mine and leave. Take another picture of the diner’s sign, complete with address, and post it to my Chirping account with a pointed subtitle. Hold open the passenger side door of my Epona and wave him in, careful to close the door softly.  My own door doesn’t need the same delicacy, and if my hands grip the steering wheel a little tightly, well, at least I’m not strangling anyone. Drive.

Drive until the neon lights and smooth pavement of Castletown turn to rough highway and hills. Drive until the hills turn from crops to trees.  Past the wrought iron fence and signage of Korokshire. Past the private property warnings and up to the gate. Park long enough to key in the access code on my phone. Drive. Up the lane, to the garage where I keep Epona and fix her up as best I can to keep her running and happy. Turn off the ignition.

Sheik’s got his arms wrapped around his knees and is staring at the dash like it holds the answers to the mysteries of the universe, not even blinking. That’s…not okay, but I’ll deal with him in a moment. There are other things I need to take care of first.

My Chirp about the diner has over six hundred comments already, and I get distracted reading the first few, then sickened at the third thread, started by PompIsBomb. Groose is an arrogant bully, and hasn’t ever run into a reason to change. While it’s not surprising, it is disappointing. He could be so much better than he is if he’d put in even a quarter of the effort he takes with his hair into dealing with other people. Unlike Mallar, who no amount of counselling can really help, but I’m not sure that piece of work does social media.

+Wear a condom, you don’t know what you might catch!+ PompIsBomb

+Slumming it, are we?+ DiamondsRABoizBest

+Hey spookfuker weres ur girlfriend?+ SickleSlashScimitar

+Aw, did your feelings get hurt?+ TrueKing

+Actually, double up against dick rot.+ PompIsBomb

+Cleaning up Hyrule one plate at a time.+ SeesAllTrueBlood

+Honor and Loyalty!+ LightIsLyfe

Moblins. The lot of them. I’ll ask if anyone is watching LightIsLyfe for any action offline, but there’s nothing I can actually do about any of them.  Well, I could pound Groose into the ground, and it would feel good for a bit, but it won’t change his behavior and would give him something to complain about. Instead, I dial the number I meant to before I got distracted.

“Hey, hon.” Telma answers after just two rings. “You gonna be home soon?”

“Yeah, I’m in the driveway now. Is it okay if I bring a guest?”

“Of course, sweetie. Go on up to your suite, I’ll make you some tea.”

“Thanks.” I murmur, and send Tetra another emergency flagged text.

=got gutted. home tonight=

=saw chirp. on the line?=

=maybe=

=company?=

=please=

=soon= She promises, and I pocket my phone to turn to Sheik, who hasn’t moved the entire time.  I’m not sure he’s blinked. At least I can hear him breathing.

“So this is home. Korokshire Manor.  Uh…welcome.” Goddess, that’s awkward.

“Do you intend to make a habit of kidnapping me?” He asks, turning his head to look me in the eyes. “Because if so, you can call my Professors tomorrow.  Unless rape and murder are back on the table, of course.”

My jaw goes slack. He sounds…almost relieved at the last.  Like that’s something to hope for. Fortunately, I have a perfectly acceptable response to that question.

“No! Goddess! Wh…I would never!” If I had enough air, I’d be shouting.  As it stands, I’m croaking. He snickers at my reaction, and that confuses me into staring.

“You’re such an innocent. It’s cute.” He chuckles.

“You’re not funny.” I inform him.

“You sure are.”  He snorts, grinning at me. It turns to a leer. “I could fix that for you.”

“Fix what? Your sense of humor? Please do.”

“What doesn’t kill you gives you a morbid sense of humor and unhealthy coping mechanisms.” He nods. It sounds like a quote. Almost like a creed. “Surely there’s a bed in that monstrosity you call home?”

“A…a couple? I can get you back to Castletown by tonight though.” As long as he eats something at least halfway nutritious, I’ll be content. With Telma running the manor and Gillian in the kitchen, that won’t be a problem.

“Perfect. And no, I meant fix you being so innocent. Since you took me out for a meal, I owe you at least a blow job, but wouldn’t say no if you wanted to stretch out my asshole.”

“But…you…but…” I stutter, shocked. I thought the rule was a kiss after a first date if you wanted a second. Not that I have a lot of experience with dating. Tetra’s been my friend since middle school, and she kissed me first. Malon, too, kissed me first, though that was an accident. The second one wasn’t. Ruto didn’t so much kiss me as try to suck my lips off. Saria just kisses my forehead or cheek. Now that I think about it, he’d be the first person I’ve initiated anything with. And he’s a guy. Malon will probably laugh herself sick when she finds out.

“Yeah, fuck my butt. Or are you not interested? I’m told I’m good with my tongue.” He offers after asking another question I don’t feel comfortable answering and reminding me that he’s offering way more than just a kiss for way less than a meal. He’s worth more than an old granola bar and box of juice.

“I’m interested…” I admit, and catch his hands before they can reach my zipper. “…in getting to know you, first.”

“Prude.” He pouts, but relents, sitting back in his seat.

“Just…Tetra’s coming over, and Telma will have tea ready soon, and you’re welcome to stay for supper. Then I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”

“I…see.” He goes quiet again, and shivers. Epona’s not running and pumping out heat. He must be cold.

“Come on, let’s go inside.” I urge, and get out of the car myself to get him moving. My garage is off the main house by a good ways, the manor’s been around for centuries and has a carriage house and stable close by instead.  The carriage house has been renovated enough that three families have apartments there.  Telma, Renado, and their daughter Luda have one on the upper story. Auru and his son Shad share the smaller of the ground floor apartments, while Mils and Mina rent the other. Salvatore lets the other staff bring their children over too in an unofficial daycare, and I think that’s what saves me from Sheik’s silence.

“Link! Link! You’re back!” Colin calls out as I take off my shoes, and the horde descends.

“Link!” Talo shouts.

“Lord Lincoln!” Luda rushes in to wrap her arms around my leg.

“You have a friend.” Pamela says, looking up at Sheik.

“Can you play with us?” Colin asks.

“Can you?” Luda echoes.

“Sorry guys.” I apologize. “Not today. My friend Sheik and I had a long day, so we’re going to have a nap until supper.” Maybe. I can barely hear a helicopter, so we might not have the time.

“Your friend is named Sheik?” Talo asks me, ignoring him.

“Sheik isn’t a name,” Luda says, looking at him strangely.

“It is what you will call me, _ude-hird bairn_ , if you know what is good for you.” He returns, and though the words are threatening a small girl, his tone is warm and gentle.

“ _Y_ _a,_ _esclavin_ Sheik.” Luda nods, and reaches out to take his hand in hers. “Lord Lincoln’s suite is this way.”

With my duties as host taken over by a ten year old and the boys already back playing something I think is supposed to be knights and dragons, it’s my turn to be quiet and follow. Luda gives a pretty good tour of the manor, which isn’t surprising given her mom runs it for me, as she ran it for my mother before she passed.  My father hasn’t set foot in it since then. Some people who don’t know better say it’s because he loved her so much that the memories are too painful. I know that it’s because she can’t guilt him into visiting any more.

Luda guides him through the halls and up the main staircase, even though my great-grandfather had an elevator installed eighty years ago and it still works…though it hasn’t had the same kind of upgrades as even the stables. Maybe it is better that we avoid using it.

From there, it’s only down a hallway to my suite of rooms. Luda bows at the door before returning to the playroom, leaving me with Sheik standing awkwardly just inside my reception room.

“So, um, do you take cream or sugar with your tea?” I offer, moving to the couch to sit and incredibly grateful that someone, probably Telma but maybe Ulli, has tidied up. A lot. I usually do my homework here, and there isn’t so much as a stray pen out of place.

“Black.” Sheik says, finally coming far enough in to close the door and sitting on the edge of the high backed chair that’s too scruffy for the public rooms but still comfortable. The bead on his Silver Scale clacks against the wood inlay loudly, making him flinch and making me jump. I cover it by doctoring my own tea with both sugar and cream enough to turn it nearly the same color as his skin. When my hands aren’t shaking, I pour his, and hand it over.

His hand is cool against mine as he takes it, holding the ceramic in both hands, probably to warm them. He’s not shaking, body language confident and strong in unfamiliar surroundings, and I don’t know why I think he should be until I let myself listen the words he doesn’t say. To the beat of his heart, the breath of his life.

He’s terrified.

There’s no reason for him to be, and I think we both know it. That he can hide it that well and that easily disturbs me, because it means he does it often, that anxiety is so much a part of his normal routines it barely changes his pulse.

“I’ll be right back.” I tell him, leaving my bag and slate on the floor and my tea on the coffee table to go to my bedroom. Most of my crap has been put on my bed, which was the only clear surface before, and makes me turn to the walk-in closet instead. I have to dig, giving him more time to adjust to the reception room without me there, and find what I want behind an old suitcase and under a summer weight blanket for my bed that I haven’t used in years. I take that with me, too.

He’s moved a little further back into the chair when I close my bedroom door loudly, and he doesn’t react, which is good. He’s a little calmer, then.

“Here, this place can be kinda drafty.” I say, and hand him both the blanket and the hoodie, letting him choose.

“Thank you.” He murmurs, eyes down, but he puts the hoodie on over top of the one he’s already wearing and good Goddess he’s thin. I picked that one because it’s too small for me, and he’s only a few centimeters shorter.  The blanket goes around his shoulders like a cloak instead of around his legs like I expected, but he pulls his hood down in return, showing me that he’s got his hair wrapped up like most Sheikah men do, but it’s a lot longer than I thought. To keep from staring at his lips on the rim of the cup I sip at my own tea and think. Then grin. It never hurts to try.

“Do you know how much a Yeti weighs?” I ask once he’s between sips. I don’t want to be sprayed, after all.

“What?” He asks, red eyes wide. “A Yeti? No.”

“Just enough to break the ice.” I say, and he stares at me for a second before chuckling and relaxing fully into the chair.

Success.

“Seriously? You’re awful.” He snorts. “But consider the ice broken.”

“Perfect. I’d hate to have to talk about that local sports team.” I say.

“Aren’t you on that local sports team?” He raises an eyebrow and sips delicately.

“Just two of them, as long as local is as broadly defined as team.”

“Fencing, right?”

“Technically, yes. Swordsmanship and archery.”

“Fancy.” He’s definitely not as tense, so of course Tetra has kick open the door with a bang and make him drop his tea, shattering the cup. The pieces skitter across the floor as the liquid spreads.

“Link, darling!” She gushes, slamming the door behind her and practically jumping into my lap.

“Hi.” I greet, giving her the kiss she wants and the space in my arms she demands. Usually she’s not this clingy, but then, this is the first time I’ve ever expressed interest in another man that had any potential for reciprocation. Whatever she’s feeling, or thinking, she comes first.

“Your Highness.” Sheik’s face down on the floor, blanket soaking up spilled tea and covering some of the ceramic shards that is all that remains of the cup.

“Well?” She asks me, and I flush.

“Tetra, this is Sheik. Sheik, Princess Tetra Anne Zelda Hyrule.”

“Which Sheik are you?” She asks, sliding off my lap to kneel and take his hands in hers and leaving me flatfooted and dumb.

“I am…I was for Prince Eran.” He says softly. I have a second to think _“oh shit”_ and Tetra swallows before tugging on his hands to get him to sit up a bit and get his face off the floor. He obeys, red eyes wary and body absolutely still as she stares at him, not caring that her own pants are getting stained with the tea.

“Kaya then, right? I remember you, at least a little.”

“I…” He starts. Bows his head. “I should have been there.” He rasps.

“You were twelve. He was eighteen. It was an accident.” She scolds, sniffling. And it was. A horrible, unpredictable, unpreventable accident. I remember. I was nine. She cried all day for weeks, off and on for months. “You can’t stop an avalanche.”

“But I can.” He chokes. “I _can_.”

“Could you, then?” She asks, ruthlessly logical. “Or would it have just killed you, too?”

“I…yes, but…”

“Even now, wouldn’t that kind of casting drain you entirely?”

“It would, but that is why I _am_. It was my purpose to keep him _safe_.” Sheik grinds out.

“No.” Tetra snaps, making him look at her by taking his face in her hands. “No, Kaya. _You didn’t finish your training or your vows._ You were too young.”

“He was too young.” Sheik hisses back, like a slap in her face, then blanches and face plants into the floor again. “Forgive my impertinence, your Highness.”

“You’re right. He was.” Tetra agrees, and I hear her voice tremble though her hands are steady. “That’s why I want to wait for Claree to be sure she really wants to be mine. Until she says yes, I can have a series of guards and companions and a separate security detail that rotates shifts.”

“It is the greatest honor we can hope to bear.” Sheik says, and it sounds incredibly formal and incalculably sad.

“And you!” Tetra says, turning to stare at me. “You didn’t tell me you were pursuing a Sheik!”

“Uh.” I manage, still confused and more than a little lost.

“What?” Sheik sounds stunned and sits back on his heels to stare at me too.

“I mean yes, I was surprised, but if I’d known it was _Kaya_ you were speaking of I wouldn’t have been concerned. It’s been, oh goodness, eleven years since I last saw him, but people don’t change that much. He’s a lovely person.” Tetra gushes, turning back to brush her hand along his bound hair and hold the strung beads that are wrapped up with it.

“Unfortunately, your Highness, they do.” He tells her, pulling away from her touch and standing. “I will wait in the car for your convenience, my Lord.” He bows to me, bows deeper to Tetra, and walks out the door so quickly he’s almost running. He is running, as soon as the door closes behind him. I can hear his footfalls retreating.

“Well, that didn’t go at all as I planned.” Tetra sighs. “Sorry, love. You’d better go after him.”

“I…we…what do I do?”

“We’ll talk when you get back, I promise. Just…be yourself. Show him you care.”

“That’s it?” I ask. That can’t be it. That’s all I’ve been trying to do from the moment I caught him and felt his spine against my arm.

“Maybe tell him that, too. I fear he’s had precious few people do anything of the sort for longer than I care to imagine.” She says, and I know she feels responsible for that even though, like me, she was nine, and Eran’s budding entourage wouldn’t have been even casually linked to hers. As part of her entourage now, the best thing I can do is obey.

“I’ll be back as quickly as I can, and text you with updates.” I promise in return, grabbing my phone from my bag and doing up my jacket as she stands and brushes the wet spots on her pants with her hands.

“Please try and get him to eat something.” She requests, and I nod my agreement.

“I will.” Even if it’s just the rest of my granola and juice. I give her a quick peck on the forehead.

“Go.” She decrees.

I do.

               


	3. Let Them Eat Cucco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Cast expands!  
> Picking up again right where the last chapter left off, but back to Mr. Sassypants' P.O.V.

The ghosts of Korokshire Manor are thick and densely packed, and running through them makes the hair on the back of my neck rise and my magic wail a petulant, yearning keen. The ghosts of my memories are worse. I can’t run from them like I can from Link’s ancestors and the ancestors and memories of the people who served them. The lingering remnants of their lives and their deaths tug at my mind and at my eyes with a flicker of light here, and orb there, the scent of linden and lavender, citrus and rosemary, echoes of conversations that have been repeated hundreds, thousands of times within these walls.

Distractions, nothing more. Even the out-clan girl child has enough ability to banish these shades. Breathe them out of stagnation, the roach of their existence making my fingers itch to flick them away. The darkness of my past is not so easily cleared. Darkness that, for me, began when Eran died.

Goddesses.

The Epona is waiting for me, solid and steady and _here_ beneath my hands. The garage itself confuses most of the spirits, acting as a sort of barrier from their mischief just by existing. This far from any major settlement, I clear the rest with a sword finger and shield palm wave. No witnesses to my grief over a failure that I will never live down, should I spend the rest of my life trying.  As if my life since then hasn’t been fucking punishment enough.

Of course, with the inanimate, soulless Epona as the only source of anything resembling comfort, she’s shut off and locked. Story of my fucking life. I sit down in the dirt where I belong and lean my back against her cold, hard, sharp edges to wait. It’s too fucking far to walk, and I have to snort at my own stupidity for even thinking of doing it anyway. I’d freeze, even with the extra layer than smells of dust, quality cologne, and teenage boy. Enough A.R.G. patrols have dropped spooks just like me off outside of city limits to “clear their heads” that I know just how dismal my chances are of making it this early in the year.

Supposedly it doesn’t hurt all that badly. You just…shiver a bit before going to sleep. Nayru knows I’ve been doing that the entirety of this term anyway. I’ll do it again tonight, once Lord Lincoln deigns to grace me with his presence and finally takes me back to campus. I missed class today anyway, and haven’t studied at all.  Haven’t called Grand Master Impa. Haven’t figured out who posted my bail. Haven’t even checked if Kafei got out yet or not.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything but a stale granola bar and juice box in the last two days. Haven’t showered since this morning. Haven’t had that certainty strike me that is Nayru intervening in my life in the way that usually keeps me alive.

Don’t go down that street. Take this path. Look behind that trash bin. Wait for the next bus. It adds up, and is the reason for my devotion. She was there for me when the Royal Family dropped me like last year’s fashion fads.

Goddesses _damn_ it.

Lord Lincoln has the decency to start the car and open the garage door before flicking the light on, which gives me time to rub my face clear of moisture and freeze it into the expressionless mask I’ve cultivated. My bruises sting as a painful reminder why not to indulge in emotion, ever.

“Here. I’ll take you home now.” He says, like it isn’t his fault I’m here and hurting, shoving a bag at me. I barely catch it in time to keep it off the ground, and have to juggle it to keep hold as I stand.

He’s holding the door of the Epona open for me, face stony, eyes stormy, and I shouldn’t think that’s as attractive as I do.  Shit, Kaya, great job there, just what you don’t need.  Having a powerful Hylian man with the ear of a Princess pissed at you the day after being arrested is fucking _perfect_. Keep your head down, shut up, and for fuck’s sake _don’t_ give him a reason to use the twine and filet knife he’s got in the back. He doesn’t slam the door once I’m in, and refrains from slamming his own when he gets in and buckles up, but irritation and the lingering hints of the massive boner he’s been sitting on scream along every movement and I’d have to be blind not to see it.

“I know it’s not what you expected…” He says, backing the Epona out onto the driveway. “…but there’s a sandwich and some fruit in there for tomorrow. We can hit a drive-thru on the way back for tonight before I take you home.”

“Thank you.” I whisper, not willing to risk his wrath with anything less than that, or anything more. He falls silent, concentrating on driving down the winding lane between the trees and the shadows that line the road, and that’s fine with me. I stare out the window instead of looking at him and try not to think about how I’ll be repaying him for his time and effort. I don’t have the rupees to cover gas, let alone the food, and I have to repay him or this debt will hang over my head until I can. That means using the one commodity I possess, since the only thing worse than a pissed off Hylian is a pissed off Hylian that thinks you owe him something.

Paya’s example made that crystal clear, only reinforcing what my foster father started.

Now that I’m staring at the scenery instead of the Hero of today’s story, I see the manor gates and the sign and address on them and can’t keep that putrid Dead Hand sludge dripping inside me, potential violence be damned. The cocky little shit.

“How the _fuck_ did you…” I snarl, and change my mind about what I want to say halfway through saying it. “Did you bail me out just to make me feel indebted to you? So you could miraculously appear and _save_ me? _FUCK_ you!”

“What?! No!” He protests, all bright lemony sour shocked and appalled shrouding the slow rust of his arousal. Isn’t that fucking peachy.

“Her Highness mentioned you were pursuing me. Was it all part of your plan, Hero? Swoop in like a knight in shining armor from a trite romance, save the poor spook from his miserable life?!”

“I would _never_.” He growls back, but I’m mad enough to spit pure bile and his pompousness Lord douche-bag can kiss my bony ass.

“I have news for you, your Lordship, I’m not some dumb bitch that will fall for your _lies_! I don’t need _rescuing_! You’d have been better off just telling me you wanted to fuck me, instead of all this convoluted subterfuge!”

“I never lied to you!” He roars, pulling the Epona over to the curb and unbuckling to face me directly, eyes dilated, muscles tense, slacks tented with his cock straining against the zipper. Shit, that’s hot. I’m already boiling over.

“Omission is as bad as commission, Lord Dickhead! I’m _spook_. I _see the truth_!” He’s hard enough that grabbing his cock through his slacks is easy. “I _know_ you want me!”

“Of course I do!” He half whines, half sneers.

“Just didn’t want to pay for it up front? Too morally _pure_ for that?” He wouldn’t be the first. Too bad for him I don’t do the girlfriend experience. Makes it easier for a bad date to follow me home.

“You’ve been taunting me from the start with your perverted innuendos! I’m not made of stone!” He nearly wails, eyes flashing like agate, cheeks flushed with new color.

“Funny then, that your dick is rock hard.” I grit out, rubbing him to emphasize my point. “You could have saved us both a lot of time and effort by just handing over a fifty rupee note and finding a washroom.”

“W…what?” He whimpers, but then again, I’ve got his cock in my hand and I know how to use it. Another life lesson learned in thanks to powerful, angry, Hylian men.

“I need _money_ , Hero, not pity. I already told you I’m good with my mouth.” I growl. How can someone be so _oblivious_?

“You’re not a whore!” He argues, cheeks flushed, staring at my lips and yeah, that’s doing more for me than most lays. I’d sit on his cock for that look alone, even if I didn’t already owe him, but car sex is for porn stars and actual hookers and I’m not doing it.

“Everyone’s a whore, Hero.” I tell him. “Some people just want something other than money.”

“And you don’t?” He gasps as I stroke him, toying with his snap.

“I _need_ money.” I remind him. “What I want doesn’t really matter, now, does it?” His snap opens easily, just like his zipper.

“It does to me.” He whispers as I lift his dick from his underwear.

“That’s nice.” I murmur, and bend my head.

He’s clean, like I am, which isn’t really surprising considering his background. When you usually fuck cunts though, the condoms make sense. Accidents cause people. He won’t need one for me, but if he wants to try fucking ass instead of twat he’s gonna need lube. I can still blow him without it, but it’s kind of necessary for anything more. We even have a convenient ditch right next to the car.

I lick him, from as close to the base of his cock as I can get around his bunched up boxers to the very tip of it. The wetter the better. He starts leaking pre-cum almost immediately, and I slurp a bit because of it, toying with the foreskin before focusing entirely on the shaft beneath it, the sensitive head too delicate to just dive into immediately.  He moans loudly in response, words garbled, but I know what he means. Every man speaks the same language when I’ve got my lips on their dick.

I make sure to run them all over it, getting it sloppy enough for my hands to glide, smelling the musky tang of him as he moans. The tiny slit the fluid spills from is warm against the tip of my tongue as I circle, circle, and circle again, then swallow as much of him as I can. He bucks upward and I let him, learning how deep he likes to go before he can adjust and get all polite and mannerly again.

“Sheik!” He hollers, and grabs at my hair.  Good. Direction in pace, speed, and depth is appreciated.  I know some guys don’t like being manhandled when sucking dick, but I don’t mind. It makes my job easier. Since he’s tugging upward, I pull back and return to the head and first inch of his shaft particularly, keeping my hand stroking the rest. Give it a twist, a flick of the wrist. Diddle those coconuts.

Breathe through my nose. Suck gently. Kiss the tip. Lick it. Let him back into my mouth, teeth covered by lips. Swallow when he hits my soft palate. Swallow again as he thrusts and his hands tighten. Shift to kneel on the floor instead of half on the seat, careful not to bump any of the console. He helps, spreading his knees and twisting to sit half-sideways and letting me swallow more of him.

I can reach his balls that way, and lift them, squeezing gently, making it easier for them to remember what he needs them to do.  Not yet though. It’s too soon for a fifty rupee blowjob. Maybe a fiver. The vein underneath throbs in response, and I pull of and grin. Mouthing the shaft from the side gets him to whine in the back of his throat, and I slide my nose along it, tilting my head to look up at him and make absolutely certain that he’s watching me before opening wide.

I was fourteen the first time a Hylian fucked my throat. I’ve gotten better at it, since. As soon as my nose is flattened against his stomach and my tongue licking his sacs, he looks away. That’s fine, since it’s because I made his head loll backward and his eyes roll into his head. Now I can focus on relaxing my throat, breathing through my nose, swallowing around his cock. I have to back off four times before he adjusts enough to pull and tug again. Then it’s just a matter of time, repetition, and the steady slurping sounds that twine around his gasping. Typical, enough that the bitterness is almost a comfort.

The hands on my head move to hold me still, and I feel his pulse quicken in my mouth, hear his gasping breaths, feel his balls lift and dance on my tongue. As familiar as the back of my hand, and so fucking predictable, this time I don’t bother edging him and let him blow his load down my throat.

Swallow, swallow, swallow. Earn your release through his, Kaya. Let him watch you do it. They always like to watch.

“ _Shit_.” He groans, thighs trembling against my ears, and I moan as I let his spent cock out into the cool air of early spring evenings. Careful not to let a single drop of cum fall to stain his pants I suck him clean and continue to mouth and kiss his dick until he whimpers, overly sensitive, tugging at my bound hair and the spirit beads I’ve earned the right to wear despite everything I’ve done and am. With caution, conscious of how his nerves will be firing for a while, I tuck him back into his boxers and do up his pants before returning to my seat and buckling up.

He sits still for a long, long time, and I savor the taste of him on my tongue, the warmth of his spunk in my gut. Strange, how a few mouthfuls makes me feel so satisfied, and wanting so much more. Eventually, he pulls out his phone and sends out either a double dozen Chirps, or is texting someone who is texting right back.

Probably Princess Tetra. Good. She should know, exactly and precisely, how much people can change. How far they’ll go for survival. That way, when her sister inherits the Throne, Princess Tetra will be able to caution her not to underestimate those who have nothing to lose.

It’s just before six when my phone dings with a notification, and the sound seems off after listening to Lord Korokshire’s phone for the last three hours. It’s a reminder of just how much nothing I have, delivered just in time for whatever intern had to do it to have an excuse not to answer the phone or any e-mails I send in response. Tomorrow when administration opens up again, whoever answers can claim ignorance and keep me waiting in limbo until I give up or my battery dies.

My battery will die before then.  I only have forty-two percent left, and since I’m no longer a student at Castletown University that means my access codes have been revoked and my dorm cleaned out.  Hopefully I can still get my stuff, but I doubt it. Not that it’s worth much to anyone but me. It’ll be trashed, if not burned in effigy to remind uppity spooks like me of our place in a polite Hylian society.

The bitter saltiness of semen has turned to ashes, dust, and disgrace.

The Epona drifts from the side of the road again as Link steers us wherever we’re going, eventually pulling into a mall parking lot.  I thought we were going through a drive-thru, but a food court works just as well. If I can convince him to fuck off, I can go dumpster diving right after and hopefully find enough cardboard to insulate wherever I end up sleeping.

“What’s wrong?” He asks as soon as the Epona’s in park and the headlights are off.

“Nothing.” I snort. Everything is going exactly as I expected. Straight down shit creek and not only do I not have a paddle, there’s no boat and I forgot my swim trunks.

“Pardon my language, but, bullshit.” He grumbles, reaching over to touch my cheek, pulling his hand back to show me the tear shining silver in the parking lot lights. “You’re crying.”

“Marvelous skills of observation you’ve got there.” I tell him, even if it doesn’t come out nearly as flat as I hoped.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” He asks. Asks. Not presumes.  He’s learning, just in time to be dozens of generations too late. Still, though…

“Fifty rupees for the blow job would be good.”  I admit. He frowns, rubbing my tear between his fingers like it’s some sort of potion that will give him the ability to fix all the world’s problems if he can just learn what they are. I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s just snake oil being sold by a spook. Let him cling to his illusions. The kind of earnest purity he has is the product of innocence, and the Fierce Deity knows I can’t take anything else from him. Not without tipping the scales into a debt I could never repay.

“Is that your standard rate?” He asks quietly.

“It is now.” With food for tomorrow that I could probably stretch to two days, fifty rupees would get me a sleeping bag at a second hand store and another week’s worth of meals.

“How much for you to sleep with me, then?”

“Two hundred, and you provide the condoms and lube.” I bargain. I could rent a tenement flat in Ikana for half a month for that.

“Done.” A wolfish gleam lights his eyes as he extends his hand. He’s so odd, but I’ll take the crumbs he offers and be glad. I shake on it, and he puts the Epona back in gear to swing around towards a Kakariko Fried Cucco. Sitting in the passenger seat, no one in the building sees me when he pays or when they hand over enough food for forty people. I have to pile some of the boxes and buckets in the back seat, and still end up holding three stacked trays of large sodas.

He twiddles with his phone again, then drives us to a pharmacy. I can’t get out without spilling soda everywhere or assistance that I don’t dare ask for, so I sit and wait for him to decide how he wants to do this. Do me.

“Any preferences?” He asks, like it matters what type of lube he fucks me with. Fate doesn’t seem to like using any, but I already know that he’s a gentleman in every sense of the word. The consideration of those of lesser station that’s supposed to be inherent in the nobility is something I’m not used to. Truth be told, I find that part as strange as a tap-dancing mimic.

“Nothing flowery.” I respond. “It’s an ass, not a bouquet.”

“So fruity is fine? Banana, maybe?” He grins, teasing, and the part about Hylians in general wanting to fuck me over is at least familiar enough. I don’t need the damn near whimsical innuendo to bend over for him though. Just the rupees it’ll get me. If I didn’t need those, I’d do it for the feel of him on my back so long as he bites me a little bit, too.

“You wanna toss that salad?” I return, and he flushes. At least he understands the reference, so he’s not entirely naive, just inexperienced. I suppose I should feel honored that he picked me to experiment on, but I don’t really feel much at all right now. It’s probably for the best.

“I’ll...be right back.” He’s still blushing, and if I weren’t contemplating the destruction of the last of my miserly dreams, I would be amused. Now, I’m just happy to be left alone with the blackest of my thoughts clinging to my mind like tar.

Link’s phone chimes and I see Deputy-Commissioner Renado’s name flash across the screen, an ominous =Done. It’ll be over before you…= followed immediately by a second text that leaves them both illegible without breaking into his phone. I don’t care enough to try, and lean my forehead against the cool glass to stare at the pavement until he returns with a small bag that he tucks in behind my seat as he pulls out his phone from his pocket.

…my phone from his pocket. Maybe he didn’t notice he grabbed the wrong one. I didn’t. Not that I’m really noticing much. I missed leaving the parking lot entirely, for instance.

“So, where am I taking you?” He asks, pulling on to Daltus Boulevard.

“Wherever most of the KFC is going. It’ll be cold before too much longer.” I shrug.

“Perfect.” He laughs, and crosses three lanes of traffic at once, making me clench my hands on the carriers and twitch as some of the soda spills on my lap. That means ants, unless I can rinse it out before crashing for the night. As I’m debating between bedding down behind Death Mountain Industries or in Lady Agetha’s Park – torn between the factors of warmth and security cameras – I realize we’re leaving the city. Kidnapped again. The fucking shit.

Neither, I guess. I don’t know much about wilderness survival, and with thirty-six percent left on my phone’s battery, I won’t be able to look up enough to make a difference. I can still call Impa, so she’ll have a general idea where to search for my body once we get where we’re going. My breath is starting to frost the window. Twilight descends, making the ghost lights easier to see. If any of them were stronger, or turned angry, those lights would be bound in lanterns. As they are, they dance like fairies amidst the trees, blue, red, green, and violet.

Eons ago, this is where a river came to die. The bog slowly filled, and the soil, rich in death, gave life to a great forest. Not as great as the Kokiri Forest to the east, but then, the dead there were both cared for and permitted to guard their resting place.  Here, with the Witchfinders scouring the city and surrounding districts for any sign of unorthodox magic, the dead have been abandoned. Left to rot, forgotten, unable to move on, unable to scream. There is no one to hear. 

No wonder I empathize with them. I’ll be joining them soon enough, after all. I may as well tend to as many as I can, first. If the Witchfinders burn me for it, at least I’ll be warm.

My converter lies dormant, still layered between my shirts, as I call on my magic directly for the first time outside of the strict supervision of my instructors and the Witchfinder Extraordinaire. The small orbs that are all that remain of the people that lived here while it was still a bog…sleep. Rest. For the first time in centuries. Their ethereal screaming soothed, I slip towards the Silent Realm that sings to me, azure and gold and glorious.

The Epona stops dead, lights out, dash rapidly cooling, as Link curses and steers us towards the ditch.

“Sorry.” He apologizes as soon as we’re stopped. “Don’t know what happened. Be right back.”

Out the door and under the hood in less than ten seconds, I can’t help but wonder what that kind of dexterity will be like poking around my undercarriage. If he takes even half the care and a quarter of the time he does with the Epona – and I had some other option – I’d definitely let him test my suspension for free. As it stands, the interior is redolent with the permeating stench of greasy fried cucco and three identical armored luxury cars have passed us by the time he’s done.

Key in the ignition, he starts her up. I’d purr like that too if he fingered me for eighteen minutes, thank you very much.

“Sorry about the wait.” He apologizes again.

“I don’t have anywhere else to be.” I shrug, and he looks at me like he’s spook himself and can see straight through my dark humor and evasiveness.

“Right.” He whispers, and with one last lingering look that would be a leer if there was any heat in it at all that I pretend not to notice, he drives.

Korokshire manor comes out in a flood to unload the car and get the cucco and fries into an oven to warm it back up as soon as he stops. I don’t see the kids, but it’s getting dark and is chilly outside and it’s not like they could really carry anything effectively anyway. I’m relieved of my sugar-water burden and have just myself and my bag to haul inside. Lacking a better option, I leave it on the bench by the door and follow the flow of people into what has to be the manor’s Great Hall.

A stuffy, ostentatious oil painting of the current Earl, Lord Richard Patrick von Hestu the First, stares down at me in two-dimensional disgust just like I imagine the three-dimensional version would. The Senator of the Economy doesn’t have any pictures of his son or his late wife that I’ve seen, even though all the Earls for at least the last seven generations show their families clearly on the walls, if not in the same pictures. Most have them in the pictures, but I can see how it would be awkward to sit three wives and twenty-two children for a painting over a hundred years ago.

At least I know where the staircase ghost is from. She glares at the elevator like it shit in her silk dancing slippers, but didn’t bother either me or Luda and hasn’t apparently caused any problems. Maybe she’s just jealous that she probably had to walk up all those stairs in all her skirts and now people can just stand there and have it done for them. If I had a lifetime to listen, I’d ask…Mavis…which it is. Since Link is already moving deeper into the crowd, I follow, resisting the sudden inexplicable urge to cower behind him with everything I have.

There are…an awful lot of people, here, with even more still arriving to sit at the large circular tables that fill the hall. Seven tables at eight chairs each means that meals here can hold up to fifty-six people without changing a thing.  The forty boxed fried cucco meals make a lot more sense now than they did in the car, but no one is standing on outdated ceremonies designed to inflate egos and ensure that the food is warm at best when you actually get to eat it.

Instead, it’s a lot like Temple.

Link, of course, sits at the same table as Princess Tetra where her entourage has clearly left us both a space. Once she’s seated, he sits at her right, giving the four others unspoken permission to sit as well and leaving me with a choice. Do I…

“Here, help me with these.” An unfamiliar woman murmurs softly from my left, and I understand at least part of the reason it feels like going to Temple when I turn to see eyes as red as my own set in a heart-shaped face as dark as mine. Her hair is silver-blonde instead of the honey-blond mine is beneath my bindings, but she’s clearly a pure-blooded spook, just like me.

She hands me four of the re-organized boxes of dead bird with a side of mutilated potato and points with her chin, emphasizing just how spook she is with that one gesture as I stare. I haven’t…Kafei doesn’t really count, and Luda is so far from pure blooded that she may as well be Human.  I haven’t seen another pure blood Sheikah since Grand Master Impa left me with my first set of foster parents. Not in person, even at Temple. Not so close that I can feel her warmth against my hand as she rebalances her own boxed meals. Even _bedstemor_ Purah is just a half-blood.

“Serve your _domine_ , then the one with the butterfly clip and the one with the glasses.” She hisses at me, and suddenly it’s not Temple, but the Training Grounds. I’ve had as many years outside of them as I had within them, but the Training Grounds had me first, and harder, for all that my life after them hasn’t been kind. They prepared me well. I’m moving before I realize it.

Back straight, hands open, palm flat and fingers aligned. None of that possible spook magic nonsense. Head up and level, eyes down. Mouth shut but jaw soft. Shoulders back, stomach in. Grace, Kaya, move like the water. Flow. So softly they don’t even notice you’re there. Don’t reach, place. From the left, never the right. It’s hard to decide if I put the box down symmetrically or so that the entrée of cucco is closest, but a glance at what the other Sheikah is doing shows symmetry over substance and I make sure that the napkin beneath each box keeps the tablecloth from being stained with grease.

With another chin point, she tells me to take the last box and sit and _that_ , of all the shocks to my system in the last few days, is what makes me stumble. My mind goes utterly _blank_.

Chatter, and a sharp poke to my side gets me thinking again, but it cannot make me move. It is simply _not_ done. Sitting at the same table, _eating_ at the same table, eating the same _meal_ as…

He’s not my master. My master is dead, even if the magic that was to tie me to him still chases me through my dreams and calls to every Hylian with ears like blood summons sharks to a feast.

Suddenly I have no problem taking the only chair left at the table, at Link’s right hand. He’s not my master, he’s just a patron, and the Royal Family lost its ability to command my respect and obedience nearly a decade ago. Words are words, and for me, for any of the old blood Sheikah, you are your deeds. Nayru knows I’ve made a decent accounting of myself.

I say a prayer to the Three in thanks for my meal, and pick up the cucco with my damn fingers like the savage, half-civilized spook that I am, and lick them clean when I’m done. It probably would have been more of a statement if Link and the guy with the striped shirt – Niko, I think his name was – weren’t doing the same thing.

I don’t pay attention to the conversation once the KFC is sitting like a leaden lump in my gullet. I’m warm, fuller than I’ve been in what seems like forever, and so tired I couldn’t even if I tried. It’s all I can manage to stay upright and maintain a neutral posture while Princess Tetra’s entourage chatters like hens laying eggs. Lord Lincoln joins right in, and the other Sheikah at the table is a much better _esclavin_ than I’m being. Maybe if I’d stayed, if Prince Eran hadn’t died, if I wasn’t a mouthy orphan spook that turned out to be a wilting violet on top of the rest…the Princess is a good master to her. She has no idea how lucky she is. Good for her. I expect it will stay that way.

I’m tired. Tired of being cold and hungry and alone. Tired of trying my hardest and ending up with less than I started with. Tired of being ignored until I can trade it for being looked down on. Of being beaten, of getting fucked. I’m done. Done with everything.

I promised Lord Hero a chance to climb on my back, though. You are your deeds. I promised, and I will not make myself a liar. His hand on my thigh, beneath the table, unseen and unrecognized, brings me from the half-dose I’ve fallen into. He’s leaning towards me, but his fingers are laced with Princess Tetra’s on top of the table for everyone to see, and they’re looking at each other like a pair of telepaths in a bad T.V. drama. Story of my life.

I yank my hand back and inhale, which turns into a jaw cracking yawn I’m pretty sure they could hear all the way back at Lon Lon Nature Preserve. Everyone at this table definitely heard it, and some at the one next to us.

“Why don’t you go to my rooms?” Lord Douche-canoe murmurs in the ensuing silence, like I’m…an actual prostitute, which I guess I am, now. Huzzah for gainful employment. “Get comfortable.” Clean yourself up and use the lube so I can ram my cock up your hole without dirtying my hands, he means. Fine then. It’s not like there’ll be much to deal with, considering the scarcity of my meals, but if he doesn’t want to see shit on his dick after he fucks my ass, I can understand it. The Gerudo cotton fitted sheet on his bed cost more than my last bed _and_ blanket did twice over.

“Yes, Lord Lincoln.” I nod, rise, bow.  Leave. Until Princess Tetra decrees, or Lord Lincoln does as the currently present head of the household says, no one but servants will be able to leave the great hall. Servants, or slaves. _Esclavin_. Sheik. Tonight though, I’m just a violet spook whore looking to make rent.

“Excuse me, Lady Mavis.” I bow to the stairway ghost, and she laughs, delighted at the courtesy.  “Sir.” The one in the hall is new, and older by at least half a century but probably more. Men’s fashions don’t change as much or as fast, so it’s harder to tell, especially once a ghost has lost so much of itself that everything from the waist down is just gone. He stares after me, but does not follow, and that’s good. The fewer witnesses I have, the better.

Lord Korokshire’s suite is unlocked, and that’s…risky. Even for a young lordling whose father will live at least another twenty years or more, whose people love him, whose ghosts protect him. Especially for the current Princess’ _amour_ , even if her elder sister will inherit. Technically Eran would have, but if there’s anything life has taught me it’s that things don’t go according to plan.

Like the fried cucco. Now that I’ve moved a bit, the leaden lump of meat, breading, and grease is giving me cramps fit to lame a lizalfos, and sweat pools on my brow, soaking into my bindings and making me itch. I’ve barely started to fill the tub when I have to turn away and retch, getting most of it in the waste bin and the rest in the toilet.

It’s worse for the second tasting by far, and with a bit of digging I find toothpaste but no extra toothbrush, so I rinse and gargle and scrub at my teeth with my finger to try and get rid of the foul fowl squatting on my tongue. The water helps to bring up the last of it, and another round of scrubbing and spitting means the tub is almost full.

Cedar scented soaps and lotions line the shelves, and that explains the hints of tang I got from sucking Lord Lincoln’s cock. It doesn’t take me long to undress, most of the time spent unwinding my legs, arms, and hair. I leave my Silver Scale, beads, and converter on the counter, and step carefully into the tub.

Having been stuck with showers since I moved out of my last foster home and into my first tenement home, and public showers since being in the dorms, a tub deep enough to submerge myself in and long enough to stretch out in is absolute bliss. I luxuriate in water just cool enough not to burn, and let my mind drift as my body floats. Is this what the Snowpeak hotsprings are like? If so, if I live until the summer, I may see if I can hitch a ride and if they’ll hire spooks. My tension melts away like butter in a frying pan, my anxiety following soon after.

Whatever happens, happens. I can’t change my fate for anything, but I can control how I react to it, and I can prepare myself, at least a little, for what will come. Since I’m going to be literally fucked in relatively short order, I can prepare myself for that, too. The relaxation, the now warm water, the fact that it’s Link and not the bar-keese that’ll spend a twenty or a drink and ten to blow a load in any anonymous hole, makes fingering myself open that much easier. I make sure to do it under running water, too, so there are no floaters or stains left on the porcelain. Dry myself off with a towel, and debate binding my hair up again or just braiding it.

Lose the option for anything more than a que as Link comes in to his reception room, calling my name. Well, my title. I must have been soaking for longer than I thought. Sacred bleeding fuck. I snap my elastic around my still wet hair fast enough to sting my fingers, which are soothed by the lube that I smear across them and quickly coat my hole, pressing up and in just in case he doesn’t want to bother with even that much. Wiping my hand on the towel, I let it fall to the floor and rush to his bed so I can present myself properly.

Time to work for your rent, Kaya-bitch. Time to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...explaining why exactly I needed the research material I got for certain parts of this was interesting. Note to Self - don't leave laptop open and alone with company over.


	4. A Side of Red-Eye Gravy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a mistake...it's a learning opportunity.  
> Link's P.O.V.

“Sheik! I’m back!” I call out, and shrug out of my jacket to fling it on the couch. Someone’s cleaned up the tea and broken cup, so I need to do _something_ to make the place look lived in. Impa raises an eyebrow at me, but Tetra just chuckles, low and throaty, and Goddess I wish I could just curl up with her and call it a night. 

But no, this is important, and if I had half a working brain I would have thought of it earlier. Sheik…Kaya…was being trained to…I don’t know. Be a Claree for Eran like Claree is for Tetra. Security, servant, companion, maid…support. The kind of support that would always tell the truth, no matter how harsh or brutal or unpleasant.  For anyone in a leadership position, that’s important. To have someone you can trust to be honest with you, no matter what.  For Tetra, a Princess, that’s incredibly important. For Eran, who would have been King, it’s irreplaceable.

I, unless everything goes horribly wrong - Hylia forfend - will marry Tetra when we’re both done our degrees and have settled into our positions. Three to five years for courting, a few more at most before a proposal, really, and I _know_ that I don’t rank the same way she does, but as a Princess’ _husband_ , I would rank enough. Any child of the throne, including those through marriage, are assigned a Sheik. I thought it was a common name among Sheikah, like Rutela is among the Zora. Tetra explained that it’s a position, almost like a rank, and that’s why the King’s had two Sheiks at his side since his coronation. Successively, not at the same time.

She doesn’t know either of their names, and apparently the current one just blinked at her when she asked without responding. The Grand Master trains them to serve pretty much from the cradle, which means that Kaya is like a son to her, as Claree is a daughter. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Just like I’m not sure about having one, myself. Normally, some poor Sheikah kid would be pulled out of class or worse, never put in class in the first place, and trained to be what Sheik…Kaya…already is. That would be a waste of both his training and experience, and some random child’s hopes and dreams. I can’t let that happen.

I want to be his friend. Impa says that’s the most important part. Renado lit up like a flame dancer at the idea, and after he spent the day dealing with the Savingway incident and suspending the Officer that smacked Sheik around after, that alone told me it would be a good thing to pursue. Telma approves. Claree just nodded, but she doesn’t talk to anyone much. Neither does Sheik. Kaya. Goddess, I need to start calling him by his name, so I can get confused the other way and forget to call him Sheik in public.

I don’t know how Grand Master Impa feels. No one does. I’m not certain she even has feelings, though I am sure that her example is what caused the sudden surge in popularity of Sheikah in movies being badass warriors from the past or robots or aliens that kick butt and take names to help the hero, instead of the spooky…er, creepy, disturbed, savage, and psychotic killers they used to be shown as.

“You should have some sort of security on your suite, Lord Lincoln.” She tells me, flatly, almost no intonation at all in her voice. Statement, not concern.

“I’ll think about it.” I mutter. What’s the point of having separate security for my rooms when everyone on staff is like family? It would just annoy me and make their jobs more difficult. There, I thought about it like I promised. On to more important things. “Sheik?” I call again, unable to keep the anticipation from my own voice.

I could just say yes, and Impa and Tetra would sign the papers Zuko’s carrying, making Kaya _my_ Sheik, but I want to ask him, first. I won’t take that choice from him. Not that he had a choice with being Eran’s. No one’s come out and said it, but that much is pretty clear. Even the papers Impa brought when Tetra asked for them refer to the Sheik as property. _Esclavin._ The word is directly borrowed from ancient Hylian and even sounds similar enough that I didn’t need the translation in brackets behind it. It’s there anyway, making sure I know exactly what it means. Holy Slave.

I don’t…want that. Slavery has been outlawed in Hyrule for centuries, along with indentured servitude, which is really the same thing.  Technically the titles of those in my household are based on that outdated system, but ever since my father left and I learned enough to have a say in how Telma and Auru and Ashei run things on my behalf, everyone gets paid regular wages, everyone has scheduled time off and sick days, and everyone, at any time, can renegotiate or break their contract and leave.  Everyone.

Well, I can’t, not without good reason, but I’m not being exploited for labor. Neither are they anymore. They’re being paid for their labor. All I can do is be the best type of master I can be, which means letting people do their jobs well, like the adults that they are. To do that with everyone involves a lot of trust, and a lot of interpersonal skills, and I have to look at this as any other hiring process. He has the training, skills, and background that I’ll need once I’m a Duke and Consort as well as an Earl, sharing responsibility with Tetra for the well-being of our people.

So I have to ask, and he has to agree, and then we can make some changes to the contract before either of us sign it. And I have class tomorrow, in just over eight hours. I can skip the second class easily, Professor Nima just reads slides out loud anyway, but I can’t miss even a minute of Professor Kaepora’s lectures because he uses every last second and fills them with things that _will_ be on the test.

Since Sheik’s not in the reception room, and I told him to get comfortable, I hope he’s sleeping in the bed. Now that he’s eaten, he needs to rest and digest. If I’m stupid tired, he must be absolutely brainless. There’s a cot underneath the bed itself that I can pull out, and that would postpone the chat I’m dreading until after I get back from class. I didn’t study at all today, and…didn’t study at all yesterday, either. Ugh.

“Sheik?” I call again, and open the bedroom door with Tetra at my heels and Impa close behind. Zuko, Gonzo, and Claree right behind them. He’s in my bedroom alright, on my bed. Not sleeping. Clearly waiting for me. Clearly misunderstanding.  Or…mostly misunderstanding. By Hylia’s constant vigil, he’s thin.  I mean, I knew that, but the only meat he has on his bones is on his ass, and even that’s not enough to hide exactly where his bones are from across the room.

Naked. Very naked. Even though I’m mostly appalled, and then mortified, there’s enough of me that likes the caramel expanse of skin that I see that I can’t tell that part to take a long hike, and that just leads to more mortification. My mouth goes dry and I nearly trip over my own feet as Tetra keeps moving forward since I’ve come to a dead stop.

“Oh!” She squeaks, turning as red as the Grand Master’s eyes.

“ _Esclavin_ Kaya Lurelin.” The Grand Master, mistress of the iron spine and lady of a thousand masks, chokes. “Kaya…oh, you _live._ ”

He tenses as the first words leave her mouth, but turns and sits up as she rushes forward and pulls him into a hug. I don’t understand a word of the babbling that pours from first the Grand Master, and then Kaya, but I do understand enough.

“Let’s…leave them to it.” I mutter, and Tetra nods. We step back and give them privacy, and Tetra shoos her entourage out the door before turning back to waggle her eyebrows at me.

“Need a place to sleep tonight?” She offers. Seeing as my bed is occupied, I do, but if I go with her I won’t be sleeping, and I need that more than I need a familiar pillow.

“I’ll be okay.” I shake my head. “I need to sleep so I can understand Kaepora tomorrow.”

“Why are you taking his class first thing again?”

“Motivation to actually get up.” I grimace. “It’s not fun, but it works.”

“So does putting your alarm across the room.” She smirks.

“Even alarms resign in the face of my napping prowess.” I grin, striking a traditional super-hero pose.

“Oh great hero! Teach me your ways to save me from being over-tired!” She returns, lifting her hand to her forehead like an ingénue from a silent movie.

“Alas, my greatest strength is also my greatest weakness.” I bemoan, reaching for that hand to take it in my own. “My super power only works on myself.” I kiss the back of her hand, and she grins.

“Then I shall strive to assist you in overcoming your weakness, so that your power may only be used for the good of the people.”

“You already do.” I murmur, and give her the kiss she wants. Then I offer the kiss that I want, and she shares it. Then there’s a little more kissing, and it’s awfully nice.

“Your Highness.” Claree coughs. “Your transportation is waiting.”

“Bother.” She grumbles, and pecks me on the nose. “See you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Tetra.” I smile.

“Good night, Link.” She returns, and follows her incumbent Sheik to the unmarked car that will take her home and could survive the apocalypse without a scratch. Maybe that’s the key. As long as no one signs the papers, as long as the position of Sheik is unofficial, Claree can say no. That means Kaya could, too. Say no, that is. The more I think about it, the more I don’t actually want him to. I want him to be able to choose, but I want him to choose me.

That means I just have to prove to him that I’m worth choosing.

Being worthy of his trust means knowing more about him than a 45 minute security camera video, a series of videos from Groose and Stritch, and secondhand Chirpings. That means research, and even though I’m technically not behind in my classes, I’m no longer ahead, either. Talking to him, as well. Socializing with him, both publically and privately. Listening to him. Learning. And I’m tired. More tired than I usually am at this time. It’s been a long day.

“Lord Korokshire?” Grand Master Impa inquires from my bedroom doorway.

“Yes, Grand Master?” I say, and yawn immediately after.

“I have received the _esclavin_ ’s preliminary status report, and provided instructions on how to proceed. You may reclaim your room, and complete the _jus primae noctis_. I will take my leave, and return at sixteen hundred tomorrow for updates and a progress report.”

“Thank you, Grand Master.” I nod. ”Good night.”

“Good night, my Lord.” True to her word, she leaves quickly and quietly. Thankful for her intervention, I go back to pull out the cot and come face to butt with the same situation I walked into before. This time, though, it’s not as much of a shock, and I’m not trailing people like water droplets. Whenever that old language is used, I’m growing to expect some form of barbaric ancient rituals that seem to be all about power games I have no desire to play, and this is no different.

“I’m too tired to even think about it.” I grouch. “I just want to sleep, so either nip over or let me pull out the cot. And put some clothes on, it’s cold in here.”

“I don’t…”  He starts, and I want to smack myself. Of course he doesn’t have anything clean to wear. If it’s been a long day for me, it must seem like an eternity for him.

“What time do you need to be back in town for class?” I ask when he flushes and curls in on himself instead of finishing his sentence. Kaepora’s class is the earliest slot available, and I can drive if he has one then too, but there’s no reason for him to get up at oh dark hundred if he doesn’t need to.

“I don’t.”  He whispers, and that makes me pause in my search for a clean shirt and sweats that he can wear for the night, the tone of his voice making my chest ache.

“…what? I thought you said you were studying Formulaic Aetherial Defense.” That’s a full class load, and four years of work. I don’t even know what year he’s in.

“I was.” He turns away from me and reaches over the side of the bed. Giving me an eyeful. I’ve seen other guys’ genitalia before, it was an entire chapter in my high-school anatomy class, but I’ve never _looked_. From the way things hang, he’s not disappointed that I refused his offer. He pulls out his phone and toys with it while I stare at his skin and the rich blond hair that tumbles down his back in a messy queue. Free of its binding and unbraided, it reaches past his ass and piles on the bed behind him. He tosses the phone at me and even though I’m pretty exhausted, after a few moments reading I have enough energy for rage.

“That’s…who…how can…why?” I sputter.

“I broke the terms of my scholarship, what with being publically arrested. All financial aid has been revoked.” He shrugs, but I know it hurts. The last time he made that sound, deep in his chest and quick, for all it is tearing, he cried. In my car. Then offered himself to me. “Want a rent boy?” He does it again.

I don’t want to think about _why_ that’s his first response, why he doesn’t just get a job flipping burgers or something, and turn back to the drawers so he can’t see my face. I just…why do I even care what happens to him? It doesn’t make any sense. Then again, neither did hiring Shad’s dad, or letting Ashei’s cousins stay here. Even Telma’s daycare is because I want…I want people to be happy. To provide for them, with the resources that I’ve been entrusted with managing, but mostly for them to just not have to struggle when there’s no need. Build a longer table, instead of a higher fence.

“Here.” I loft a pair of grey sweats and a “C.U. ARCHERY” t-shirt with a bull’s-eye target logo on the back at him, and he catches them both, red eyes wary. He’s willing to put them on, at least. I head to the washroom to change myself and brush my teeth. I know he’s used the toothpaste, since the end is neatly rolled up to squeeze it out. I just press the middle until I can’t. My toothbrush is dry though, so he didn’t use that, too. Sharing soap I can handle, but sharing a toothbrush is nasty, which is ridiculous.  I wanted to kiss him after he had my penis in his mouth, but can’t stand thinking about sharing grooming items. He even swallowed.

Stupid, thinking about that right before going back to share a room for the night, especially after bluntly refusing his offering of anal sex. I’d like to know what makes him think he has to whore himself out for a place to sleep, but I don’t know if I actually want an answer. It’s done though, and even if I am half-interested now I’m still just as tired. He sure notices the lump in my pajama pants, but he doesn’t say anything until I’m close enough to hear his heart pounding.

“You…you don’t need to use the cot.” He says. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.” And isn’t that a loaded statement.

“I just want to sleep.” I emphasize, despite the start of an erection pressing against the seam of my sleepwear. “No sex.” At least, not now. Not yet. He’s ridiculously appealing, though. No, I can’t. I’m a gentleman, dammit.

“I understand.” He nods, but won’t look at me and sounds almost disappointed. Not that there’ll be no bed games, but in himself. Whatever the Grand Master said, whatever the _jus primae noctis_ is, he’s…saying no, and that means what? Goddess, I’ll ask later. Now, I just set my alarm and crawl under the covers on my usual side. He scoots over and does the same as I reach for the nightstand light and flip the switch, dousing the room in darkness. He doesn’t move, lying stiff and rigid to keep from touching me or disturbing me in any way.

“I wouldn’t mind a bit of cuddling.” I offer instead, and am treated to a soft laugh that I don’t think I’m meant to hear. But he relaxes, sort of. Hopefully enough to sleep. I’m so tired that once I shift the covers the way I like, I’m down and out.

I stay out until the raucous jangling of my alarm calls me back to conscious thought with a groan. A bit of flopping around and I find my phone on the nightstand, unlock it, and turn off the horrible noise that makes me move.  Flinging my arm over my eyes to avert actually getting up for another few precious seconds, I steel myself against the cool morning air. It’s nice and warm in bed, and I remember that it’s nice and warm because I’m sharing it with someone.

Now, that’s not unusual. Tetra and Malon both have an open invitation to join me whenever they want. Up until about two years ago, Colin would sometimes need to snuggle and end up spending the night. His mom is one of the maids, and since his dad abandoned them both and my father is never around, I’m the closest thing he has to a male role model. Tetra says its good practice. Why I’m thinking of that when there’s a beautiful man I only met yesterday less than an arm’s length away, I have no idea.

His hair is so thick, and he’s so skinny. The bruise on the side of his face is turning green and yellow which clashes horribly with his skin, but thankfully his eyes stay closed despite my thrashing, his breathing slow and deep and even.  Deep, dark circles sit around those closed eyes, and his lips are chapped.  As tiring as yesterday was for me, as early as I had to get up and respond to Renado’s call, it was exponentially worse for him.  I don’t want to wake him up, and I don’t have to, if I mean to follow the immediate letter of the law. 

I don’t. The extended letter of the law is that he wasn’t actually arrested, the paperwork was never filed and no one is following up on it. Renado made that especially clear. The clerk at Castletown University was just following protocol. Somewhere, between the station and the administration, someone said something they shouldn’t have, and that’s what resulted in his expulsion. I have more than half an idea as to who it was, but until my suspicions are confirmed or Sheik’s reinstated with his full scholarship, I’ll have to stay quiet. I don’t want to scare away my prey.

If he wants to keep up in his classes, though, he needs to go to them, just like I do. Goddess, give me the courage to get out of bed so I can sit in on Kaepora’s lecture…and the courage to wake up my deeply sleeping bedmate without ravishing him. He’s so delicate and…

…Chirpings first. Nothing on Tetra leaving the Royal Residence last night, which is good. Nothing unusual about Groose’s regular six-egg omelet aside from the fact it’s a six-egg omelet. More follow-up Chirps about the diner, and an official company statement that the chain holds the manager on duty personally responsible and the actions of their employees in no way reflects the company’s policy. Moblins wondering if I’m suitable for a Princess of Hyrule with my spook-sympathizing, limp wristed ways. I flag another one of LightIsLyfe’s Chirps for hate speech, and stop following the responses.

QueenGloom has a break-down, frame by frame, of what I’m starting to think of as the Savingway incident’s security footage, one of Stritch’s, and two of Groose’s to back them up and provide alternative angles. I fast-forward to the interesting parts, namely the reason Renado sent me to bail Sheik out and then intercept him on Campus, and watch closely.  At this speed, the sound is so distorted I can’t make any sense of it, but I can clearly see each step Sheik takes _after_ the wizzrobe sets fire not only to the store displays, but three people as well.

The use of blood isn’t unregulated, it’s just not what most people think to use in an emergency. At least, not consciously. They’ll use it, which is why so many mages have been able to do things they can’t replicate afterward under extreme stress, and he doesn’t use much.  Just enough to get the job done. He doesn’t touch his Silver Scale, just opens up his converter to its full potential, and that _had_ to have hurt, but again, not unregulated.  Not even proscribed. If any of the people running away screaming had taken the time to think and had the talent, they could have done the same thing.

The only way Sheik’s training shows is in the precision of his water bubble. It’s literally perfect, a textbook casting, firm and even and just big enough to catch both the burning display and the meteo wizzrobe in the circle. It real time, it takes three seconds from the first hint of magic to the last water droplet hitting the floor.  With QueenGloom’s dissection, those seconds stretch out to take a full minute.  I watch it six times before putting my phone back in the charger and rolling over.

He still doesn’t even twitch, and I change my routine to jump in the shower quickly and then dress for the day before approaching from the side of the bed. Sitting on the edge doesn’t wake him, though he shifts a little against the pillow to compensate for my weight dipping that side downward. A hand on his shoulder reminds me that he needs feeding up, and changes the way he breathes.

“Sheik.”  I call, and get nothing. What was his…ah, yes. “Kaya, wake up.” I sing-song, and am rewarded with a scrunched up nose and yawn, but he just shifts towards me and drops right back into sleep. “Kaya, time to get up.” I shake his shoulder gently as I firm my tone, and he blinks.

Those eyes are, to be horribly insensitive, _spooky_ to see opening and blurred. As though he could see into the pit of your soul and tear up the darkest secrets you didn’t even know you carried. As dazed as he so obviously is, blinking without seeing me and throwing himself back into the bedding even though there’s nowhere to go, they’re just so odd. The way his pulse rate has spiked and his breathing shifted from low and slow to high and quick, I almost regret waking him up at all. He was so peaceful, and now he’s back to being anxious. Even though I know it’s not really my fault, it sure feels like it is.

“Good morning. Class is in an hour and a half, breakfast in the reception room, and I’ll leave you something clean to wear on the bed when you’re done showering.” I tell him when he’s actually seeing what he’s looking at.

“My hero.”  He snorts, gives me this adorably lopsided little half-smile that’s completely out of place next to his bruise, and completely in line with the sleepy softness of his body and the mess of bed-head broken free of his que. He’s…cute. Not as cute as Saria can be, but cute enough that I definitely notice. Shoot. My mouth goes dry with the urge to kiss him.  I refrain, barely, thinking hard about Kaepora’s droning voice and everything I’ll miss if I don’t have my butt in a chair by eight sharp, and stand to distance myself physically from the temptation.

“Come on, up. Class.” I insist, and he nods.

“Go ahead, I’ll be along shortly.” As breakfast is waiting, and the most important meal of the day, I have no problems giving him a bit of privacy. As soon as I hear the shower running, I rush back and practically destroy my closet trying to find something for him to wear.  He’s only a bit shorter than I am, but so much skinnier that most of my slacks and jeans would just fall off.  Shirts, even collared ones, aren’t as much of a problem since they’ll be covered with a sweater or a hoodie or jacket and shoot, he’ll need, no wait, he has my old high school hoodie he can use.  Shirt, shirt, shirt. Shirt. Good, okay, pants.

Skinny jeans from when they were fashionable a few years back join the long sleeved t-shirt, socks, and the Red Lions hoodie on my bed.  I can’t do anything about clean underwear, or the weird wrapping things he wears, but hopefully we can pick up his stuff from wherever he was staying today between classes. Before he finishes with his morning toilet, I close the disaster of a closet and head back to breakfast to catch up on the televised and printed news.

While not as fast as Chirpings, there’s usually more information in the printed newspaper, and even though most televised news casts are biased there are a couple that strive to minimize political influences and distinguish fact from assumption. Then there are the sensationalists, like the Keaton Report, that are so out of touch with reality that assumption becomes fact with no discernment at all. I try to catch as many of them as I can, keeping perspective in mind, and try to predict how each target audience will react to what is being presented as the real story.

Another reason that having my own Sheik would be incredibly useful.  I’d still watch, and read, and predict, but having someone else to bounce ideas off of, who comes from a different background with a different network of confidants, would help me when it comes time to make decisions and official statements and reactions. I’m nearly through the Sports and Entertainment section of the Castletown Herald by the time he emerges from the bedroom, freshly showered and changed.

Seeing him wearing my clothes makes something drop in my stomach and settle in my groin, and it’s not breakfast. Breakfast just gives me the energy to rustle the paper and turn the page to prove that I’m not staring, and the last of my tea gives me something to sip so I don’t say anything inappropriate. As my tray is clearly disturbed and consumed, I don’t have to tell him which one is his. I don’t miss the small choking noise he makes after sitting down and lifting the cloche.

I like the same thing every morning. One waffle, butter, fresh seasonal fruit, two links of sausage, syrup, no whipped cream, and two cups of a black tea. Orange Pekoe, Earl Grey, Ordonian Breakfast, doesn’t matter.  As long as there’s one spoon of sugar and three cream in each, turning the brew a light golden-brown almost the exact shade of his skin.  I’d fill him with cream too, but then I’d really be late for class.

Gillian’s sent up the exact same thing for his breakfast, but all the condiments are in little saucers on the side and it’s only half of the portion I get.  There’s a bowl of oatmeal and a poached egg instead of half the waffle and a sausage, giving him a few options to choose from. I’ll make sure to have his preferences sent to the kitchen after my talk with the Grand Master this afternoon, because he doesn’t touch any of it.

“Do you want something else?” I ask when it becomes obvious he’s not going to eat. “I can ring up the kitchen and have them bring you what you’re used to, if you’d like.” Telma did warn me that he probably wouldn’t be able to stomach a lot of the food I’m accustomed to.

“No! No, don’t…” He starts, jumping in his seat and then blushing hard enough that it has to hurt his bruise. It gets him moving though, and the oatmeal seems to be acceptable. “I…”  He tries, then masks the mumble and attempt at conversation by taking a mouthful of hot cereal. I let him evade having to talk and eat at the same time, waiting until he’s done and Hyrule Network News finishes the segment on the riots in the University bus mall yesterday. A talk show theme song plays and I turn the television off, turning to look at him properly.

About half of the oatmeal sits uneaten in the bottom of the bowl, but the egg and fruit are gone alongside the coffee, and so I count that as breakfast. He certainly does, looking at the rest of the food on his tray like it’s going to jump up and bite him back. His bruise isn’t any better than it was on waking up, and more evident for his hair being bound back again. There’s nothing to soften the molted outline of broken blood vessels, and the red, blue, green, and violet beads he’s got tucked up in the head wrap just emphasize the colors of it.

Other than that, he’s looking much better than he did when I first caught him just outside Archaeology, and it’s not just that he’s wearing my clothes either.  The red of my old hoodie makes his skin glow and his eyes shine, and he’s doesn’t look like a strong wind would knock him over either.  A bit of stiffness to his spine, purpose in his posture. As nice as he is to look at, if I keep staring he’ll get uncomfortable or I’ll end up doing something that I have to keep reminding myself needs to wait until I at least know what he prefers for breakfast and what his favorite color is.  I want…but want comes after need, and there are things I need to do first. Priorities.  Responsibility. Class.

“Full?” I ask, just in case he’s sleeping with his eyes open.

“Yeah.  I mean, yes, my Lord. I’m not used…” He grimaces. “…this is more food than I usually have.  For breakfast.” The last words are hastily added, and given how thin he is, I’m pretty sure that he’s trying to placate me, and that what he initially meant was ‘ever’.  I don’t want to be placated, but I also don’t want to be late.

“Just leave the rest, then. We’ve got to get going to be on time for class.”

“I don’t…” He starts, and since he never should have been sent that e-mail in the first place and it _will_ be taken care of by lunch at the latest, I don’t want to hear it.

“Go to class.” I order. “It’s too late in the term for someone to fill the seat, and there’s no law against someone just existing in the space as long as they don’t cause problems.”

“I _am_ the problem.” He argues.

“No, you’re not.” I retort, and from the set of his jaw he’s going to continue to disagree with me, but Kaepora waits on no man. “Now, come.  I’ll meet you at lunch by the Archaeology building again, but we’ve got to go.”

“But…”

“I’m not leaving without you, and I have Kaepora.”  I tell him, and it’s a testament to how notorious the man is about punctuality that Sheik pales, and goes for his worn out running shoes without another word.

Bags in hand, we pack into my Epona and I turn the heat on full blast as soon as we hit the road. I mentally review my readings and he does one of his on the drive into town. He reads quickly, underlining passages and quotes with a pencil and making notes in the margins as he does, as silent as the wind.  The mechanical pencil slides between his lips as we hit Nineteenth Street East, and I never thought I’d be envious of a piece of plastic. His text disappears into his bag as I pull into the parking lot, and he glides out of the car the second I’ve got her in park.

I don’t know what class he has, but the campus is sprawling and he probably has to rush to get there in time. I don’t have as far to go, just two buildings and a tunnel, but get out fast enough that I can yell at his back.

“Lunch, outside Archaeology!” I remind him, and let him go as I shoulder my own bag and join the stream of students steadily lurching towards higher learning. The classroom is three quarters of the way full by the time I arrive, ten minutes before eight, and go to my regular seat. Not in the first row, that’s for the keeners and the early birds that actually like being up this early. Not in the back, either, that’s for the slackers and the ingrates that are here because they can be, not because they want to be, need to be for their degrees, or are actually interested in the classes.  Third row back, middle aisle, left hand side so I can claim the left-handed writing desk and pull out my slate.

It’s only at eighty-percent, so I’ll have to charge it after class. Somehow.  I was going to skip Nima’s lecture and head down to administration to clear a couple things up provided Renado doesn’t text me before then. I have a handful of texts, three flagged Chirps, and one e-mail that isn’t marked urgent but is from the Grand Master.  Chirps are fastest, and QueenGloom is famous enough that any Chirps she sends directly at someone are automatically flagged. I don’t remember what she’s famous for, only that she’s a she, sarcastic, brutal, and more than a little sadistic, but always pointed and direct. I have no idea what +? ! O.O !+ followed by + :D faith in decency restored + means, and unfollow that thread immediately.

Groose’s Chirp isn’t even halfway there on the decency scale. +are you a gibdo yet, spook jockey? lack of brains confirmed.+ That thread is cut immediately as well. The third flag is Chirpings Accounts informing me that my notification on LightIsLyfe has ended with a termination of their account, which is good and bad.  Good, because that type of bigoted hate speech has no place in a decent society, and bad, because they’ll just make another account and keep on posting, but now I have no idea who or what they are and no means to trace their activity.

Tetra’s texts are just greetings, which I return along with a picture of myself with what I’m wearing, and tell her I’ll be meeting with Sheik for lunch just outside Archaeology.

=you may want to avoid it, they’re still cleaning up from the riot= She warns, and I curse at myself for not thinking of that, then curse myself again for not even getting Sheik’s number. Talk about idiocy.

=I have to go. Forgot to get his number and told him I’d meet him there.=

=Darn it. Be careful.= She cautions, and I agree before shoving my phone in my pocket as Kaepora comes in and starts talking before he even gets to the front of the class.


	5. A Modest Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some days will leave you spinning.

You are fucking pathetic, Kaya, I grumble to myself and can’t even argue back.  No matter how I look at it, I’m a sad sack of shit, and I don’t even feel that awful about it. Dignity be damned. Standing here yesterday, suicide looked like a pretty spiffy option. It’s still in the top ten, don’t get me wrong, but it’s no longer singing show-tunes and lit up with neon lights. Maybe top five. I still have no desire to be made into a martyr for Cia and Lana to publically and loudly mourn over while they privately and quietly gloat over what good little representatives of the less fortunate they are.

There’s enough pink glitter on the ground that I could even hate them for it, already, and it hasn’t even really happened yet. Yeah, sure, the fuckwits that decided a bus mall was the place to riot aren’t bright enough to light a candle with a tank of gasoline and a flamethrower, but those two certainly have enough brain cells to realize that the same unfortunate souls they claim to represent kind of rely on public transit to get places. The temporary stops are awkward and dangerous and a traffic hazard, but until the mall is cleared of debris and yellow tape, they’re the best the University can do.

There’s no hope of cleaning the glitter. Stuff is worse than herpes, and will still be turning up a thousand years from now every time someone sneezes wrong.

So yeah, they’re certainly a pair of finely minced turd burgers, and yeah, I’d like to punch them both just once in their smug faces and break their designer crowns and Lana’s designer frames, but right now not getting punched myself is more important.

“…disgrace to C. U.’s good name.” The bigass red-head that was cowering behind a magazine rack at the Savingway snarls, close enough to my face that I can smell the eggs that he had for breakfast. Unless he deliberately chows down on rotting garbage with a high sulfur content. My guess would be eggs, though.  With how he’s built, the muscle in his thighs weighing about what I do in my entirety, probably egg whites.  A lot of them. He either needs more fiber in his diet from the greasy sheen on his forehead, or less product in his hair.

“You spooks should just join the rest of the shadows.” The short, rotund one sniggers. Piggy. I recognize him, too.

“Leave space for people who deserve it.” The one I don’t know snarls, his bleached forelock and thin, pointy nose reminding me of a heron or crane. Not to mention the beady, predatory gleam in his eyes.

“Know your place, red-eye. Under my foot.” The tall, skinny one sneers, stomping down on the helpless pavement and grinding some of the glitter into his boot sole for all of eternity.

“Or maybe you just like being under von Hestu.” The Moblin disguised as a Human with more than a little Gerudo in his heritage leers. “How much did he have to cough up to get you to bend over?” My focus turns from not getting punched to not getting punched and then fucked. There’s no one else around, not that they’d help, not even the work crews repairing the charred and seared blacktop where some of the bombchu flares and fireworks didn’t achiever proper clearance before exploding.

“Did he feed you his dick before or after hitting the diner?”

“In the parking lot, maybe?”

“Whatever it was, I can double it.” Musclebound, mule-headed, and twice as ugly whispers with his stank breath before groping my ass. I’m pretty sure I could take a punch or two from him, maybe even a kick, and entirely certain that he’d get more than that in before I could get away. Forelock would join in if given half a chance, too. “Triple, if Mallar here can film it.”

So pathetic, but I can’t risk fighting, and trying to run is just going to get me hurt. I just can’t. Not after two days ago, and definitely not if I have any hope of finishing my degree. Damn Link for giving me that. Hope.  Bastard. But I took it, I have only myself to blame for that, and I can’t give it back. I can’t. I don’t even have my knife anymore to threaten them off, and they haven’t said anything that isn’t true. Not the whole truth, but no one ever takes the whole truth.  Barely anyone sees it, and most of those that do are just as fucked up as I am, if not worse.

“Fifty for a blowjob, two hundred for a fuck. No bareback, no kissing.” I say. Technically Link hasn’t paid me for sucking him off, and hasn’t taken me up on the rest, but that’s only a matter of time. Even if he’s denied me as a Sheik, the way his cock grows in his slacks every time he thinks about it tells me that he will. Those are the prices I quoted him, and those prices will still get me the same things. The only difference is now I know that all of my shit has been destroyed or disposed of, and yesterday I wasn’t entirely confident in it.

Even if Impa manages to track Sir Dorian down, there’s no reparation that can be made. What’s done is done, and can’t be changed. I can’t suddenly grow a foster family that will care for me, can’t be un-abandoned by the Royal Family once they no longer had a use for me, can’t just unlearn how to fellate a man three times my age and twice my size. Now, Rusl would only be twice my age, but big, red, and aggressive is close enough to three times my size that it balances out.

“Here’s one, you’ll get the rest when you’re done.” He smirks, letting a purple rupee note drop to the ground, making me stoop to pick it up.  From there, it’s easy to get to my knees. The tall one pulls out his wallet and starts counting blue paper. Piggy snorts. Forelock gets his phone out as I pull big red and ugly’s tiny red ugly out of his pants. It’s already hard, proving once again that power more than anything gets the power-hungry wanting.

At least whatever artificial assistance he uses to bulk up his body like that has the opposite effect on his cock. It’s not nearly as big as Rusl’s was, and that was just the first cock I’ve had to swallow. He’s about the same size as Link – a little smaller, to be honest - and I know telling him that would just make him angry, even though it’s the truth. Head down, shut up. Choke on it, even if it’s just for show.

He doesn’t last nearly as long, either, and I don’t swallow for him, even though his grip on my bruised face tries to make me. He goes so far as to pinch my nose closed to try and force it, but he’s not experienced enough to know how long to wait. I’m patient. I have to be. I don’t spit it up on his shoes or his lackeys since I still don’t want to be beaten, and aim for a pile of rubble instead. Tall and skinny makes sure to linger the camera on where my slobber’s trailed down my chin before turning it off.

“Not half bad.” Grease-weasel gasps, leaning against the wall as he recovers. I stay down and stay quiet, hoping that now that he’s done, he’ll leave me alone. Two additional purple rupee notes flutter to the pavement, and I pick them up as he tucks himself away. I wasn’t expecting the offer to triple my quotes to last beyond his satisfaction, so he’s at least honest in his assholery.

“I’ll have two hundred next time.” Forelock leers, rubbing himself. “Look forward to it.”

“Say hi to Korokshire for me.” Big Red sneers, and they walk away. I wipe my face clean on the sleeve of the t-shirt to at least partially hide what I’ve been up to when I go to my afternoon class. The hoodie would be faster, but dries slower. One hundred and fifty rupees will get me a place to stay, or a new charger cable for my phone and slate both, with enough left over for a loaf of bread, a dozen eggs, and five or six instant noodle packs or a couple apples.

Not bad for less than ten minutes worth of work. For half an hour under the psychotic Forelock, I won’t even need to figure out how to get to Ikana once Lord Hero gets tired of donating to my charity case.

As long as I don’t sick up my breakfast, I’ve already had food enough for today. I don’t have to stick around here like a dog waiting for its master in the hopes of getting lunch out of the deal for just sitting with him while he tries to make nice. The worst part is that he means it. That’s not how life works.

Life’s a bitch and then you die. I just proved that I’m a bitch, and dying’s definitely top five options. Maybe top three. Stupid though it may be…I can’t let go of that hope that maybe this time will be different. That he actual cares. That I might just be capable of some sort of worth. I can’t.

I should know better. I do know better. My parents, before I could even remember what they looked like, sold me into the illusion that I’d live a life where hunger wasn’t felt in the marrow, where I was looked on as useful, if I was seen at all, and they could eventually retire with the stipend my service provided. I’d wonder if they’re still getting it, or if their contract was just as temporary as Eran.

That’s what her Highness and Lord Hero just don’t understand. I don’t understand the pain of losing a brother. Saints and Sages, I don’t even know if I have any siblings. Eran’s estate was certainly settled fast enough, and since I was part of that estate I couldn’t be a beneficiary of it. Link seems to think that offering food, shelter, and work in exchange for exactly what I lost when the Prince died is enough for me to take the bait. It almost is. Grand Master Impa was quite clear on that.

Food, shelter, clothing, a roof over my head and a place to lay down at night, in exchange for the work that I spent the first half of my life learning to do. There’ve been changes to that ancient, ancient agreement, because of what happened when Eran died, because of me…because the Royal Family noticed that there were still slaves in their Kingdom. Too late, but they noticed, and they make the rules so they can change the rules. Why they’d change rules that benefitted them tremendously, I have no fucking idea, but getting back into the business abruptly costs me more, too. Maybe it balances out somehow, but like fuck if I can see it.

Sex for security, like I spent the second half of my life learning to do. A job in perpetuity, working for the Royal Family instead of an individual. Just one caveat. In addition to everything a Sheik is supposed to provide, I would need to be covered in my master’s essence to seal the deal. Quick drying glue, as it were. Sympathetic magic at its finest, since I haven’t spent my life from the cradle with him and for him. Absolutely covered in it, or repeated, regular dosing. Like a fucking spouse, or a fucking drug.  

It’s not much different from what I was trained to do. The speed is the problem in my case, needing to make up for decades of association. It would technically work for anyone, though I can’t imagine how the Grand Master would train six year olds in _that_ particular skill set.  Better, in my opinion, that children – any children – don’t have to suffer through something just because someone else had to. I survived, ergo, I can survive. Rebuilding the shattered aetheric spells woven into my essence with the D.N.A. of the one those spells are intended to serve would speed up a process that normally takes decades…and cause me utter agony in the process.

But doing it would mean I’d never have to kneel before a stranger for a handful of rupees again.

Hope is dangerous. Trusting nobles, even ones with compassionate intent, is even more dangerous. It makes me willing to risk things that I can’t afford to risk.

If I had more than two brain cells floating between my ears, I’d take the rupees and go. Rent a room with a few others, maybe try selling a few more warding barriers or personal protective charms. Hang out in Ikana if things go south. Maybe go south. I’m pretty sure I can pull potatoes and pick berries, or drive a cab, or maybe clean houses. A higher education means dick all south of the border, especially when you’ve got a face and name like mine…not that it means much here.

“Sheik!” Lord Lincoln calls, and good fuck I’m in trouble if just hearing his voice gets my shoulders to relax and my stomach to stop making butter of the cream I had in the oatmeal with breakfast. A gargantuan breakfast. Food, shelter, clothing, but he made it abundantly obvious that he’s not willing to provide the stability I crave like a junkie craves their next hit. Exactly like a junkie, self-medicating to make living another day, another hour, another minute at least bearable. Fill the hole. Be a hole. There’s not much difference.

“Here.” I call back, stepping out of the little alcove where bowl-cut lackey said the lighting was better to face the man who is both my boon and my bane.

“Sorry I’m late...”  He apologizes before grabbing my hand with a grin. “…but it was worth it, I promise. Come on, let’s get lunch.” And just like that, using the purple rupees to get a replacement blade drops down on my ‘to do’ list like a stone in Lake Hylia, sinking down in the dark recesses of my soul.

Kaya, you are so beyond fucked.

I follow behind Lord Hero as he chatters about how long the lines in administration are and how the Dean is actually really nice and the lady, not Lady, that pulled the records for him when he asked was pretty but not as pretty as Malon who is a different kind of pretty from Tetra and even though Ruto is prettier than both of them she’s scary and I’m probably a much better kisser anyway.

“I’d need to experiment to confirm my hypothesis, however.” He says, and I did not sign up for this…this… _this_. Having his cock stretching my ass out is one thing, it even can feel better than kind of good for me, but _kissing_? That’s for people with the kind of leisure I can’t even dream of.

I know I haven’t changed expression, but he somehow senses my utter panic at the thought of making out with him like some horny teenager in a horror flick and pulls back. He doesn’t let go of my hand, however, and drags me along towards whatever destination he has in mind. I could break his grip easily, it’s loose enough that even failing to match his pace would drop that connection. I tell myself it’s because he’s warm and I’m chilled that I don’t let go, and there’s enough truth to that for my conscience to shut the fuck up.

Uncle Goriya’s Pizza Parlor delivers in the district in thirty-minutes or it’s free, and usually has enough product on the go that dumpster diving on a Dinsday nets me at least two slices that aren’t mucked up or mangled. I’ve never been inside, however, and can’t say that I’d do it again, given the choice. The place is packed, wall to wall, with students on their lunch break taking advantage of the all you can eat buffet for fifteen rupees. I lose Link’s hand in less than half a second, lose sight of his green beanie five seconds after that, but try and worm my way through the crush of bodies by the till in the direction he was headed anyway because I’m a hopelessly pathetic bitch with the scent of him on my brain.

Three stepped on feet, an elbow to the kidney, and an accidental crotch shot amidst rubbing shoulders with more people than I care to think about, and I’m through the mob and in another sandpaper-on-skin situation. Booths, no tables, and two engaged private rooms. No sign of the wannabe Hero. Appalled wait staff in uniform, staring at me like they stepped in something unexpected, odiferous, and unpleasant. The older one with no apron and a pepper grinder shoved so far up his ass it’s making his mustache twitch immediately stalks over.

“I’m sorry sir, but the washrooms are for paying customers only.” He informs me with enough disparagement in his posture he could charge me for an extra side dish. “I’m sure you understand.” He says, which his face translates into _get the fuck out of my nice restaurant you cock-sucking spook_. Yeah, I understand him perfectly well. Flashing my nice shiny fifty rupee pieces won’t make a difference, and neither will mentioning Lord Korokshire’s name. The beefy guys as big as grease-weasel but with actual working, earned muscle tell me that I’d better make it snappy.

“Sheik, come. We’ve been waiting for you.” One of the men from Princess Tetra’s entourage calls out, loud enough that the girl manning the till could hear, and beckoning me towards the second private room. He does it with a straight face, too, which is more credit to him since pretty much all he saw of me yesterday was my junk. Of course, there aren’t all that many spooks that hang around both Korokshire Manor and Castletown University, so I can’t credit him too much.

Logically, where Princess Tetra’s entourage is, so is she. Fuck. If her presence isn’t the cherry on the shit sundae, then the contract she’s holding and the expression on her face certainly is. I wish I could honestly hate her, but Nayru’s touched me too deeply for that. I, of all people, surely have at least a portion of an understanding of what pain can do to a person. It’s not her fault she was born into power and prestige both. It’s not even her fault she’s beautiful.

The rest of them are waiting at a circular table, and I recognize faces from pictures and news reports, but trying to tack names to them is tougher than picking up oiled marbles with chopsticks. Nudge, Gonzo, Niko, Senza, Zuko, Mako. Like me in the crowd outside, Claree’s easy, and somewhere between last night and now her distaste for my existence has become downright animosity. You couldn’t have asked for a more revolted expression if she’d been served a plate of raw eyeballs in piss.

Not my problem. My problem is presented in graphic detail on the one wall that doesn’t have a door, sideboard, or furniture against it. MIdna’s Chirp of the security camera footage has been paused on a projection screen alongside Lord Lincoln’s photo of my fries from the diner and I see what put that royal frown in place as clearly as Midna meant all her followers to.

My face, reflected in the cutlery next to the fries with “die spook” scrawled in ketchup on the plate. Proof positive that I’m the one to blame for the bad press that chain has been dealing with since Link posted the damn Chirp and utterly ruining any chance I may have had to find work with any chain of any type. Not that they’d hire me for front of house anyway. Now…now I won’t even be able to work under the table.

“He’s here, you can come back.” Princess Tetra growls into her phone before putting it on the table and facing me. No one says anything until Lord Lincoln closes the door behind himself.

“We have a small problem.” The other man from last night says into the dimmed lighting that makes the projection glare.

“Lunch first.” The princess demands, but doesn’t make him turn the screen off.

“Here, sit.” Link’s hand on the small of my back startles me into moving, and I was right. It is warm. He sits next to Princess Tetra, as he should, and I have to resist the urge to stand behind his right hand like Claree stands behind her Royal Highness. The chair on his other side is empty, just like the one on Princess Tetra’s left is empty. “Sit, Sheik, please.” He insists, looking up at me and patting the seat.

I sit. It’s easiest, both in saying fuck off to my training that demands I stand and in bowing to a direct order.

The covered dishes are opened, and Claree serves everyone a portion of the same meal. It’s not my place to help her, not anymore, even though it’s uncomfortable enough that I can’t taste anything and barely pick at my portion which is half the size of everyone else’s. As rich as the lasagna is, that’s probably a good thing. I do finish my asparagus, and appreciate both the clean water and the coffee that’s a counterpoint to what Lady Senza calls tiramisu. Between the already full stomach, the pasta and filling sitting like a lump in my stomach, and the nausea inducing pictures blown up to cover the entire wall, I don’t touch any more of the dessert and have to remind myself to not grind my teeth.

The conversation I’ve been listening to but not participating in drops along with Lord Lincoln’s hand on my thigh, and I miss them both immediately. The one whose name I still don’t know stands and pulls out a slate from her bag as the princess moves the papers she set aside back within easy reach. Her face is familiar and for some reason out of all of them I trust her instantly to be as honest and direct as possible.

“As Sir Gonzo mentioned earlier, we have a small problem.” She says, and waves towards the video still and the enlarged picture of the diner spoon with my face in it. “Thanks to Midna Crepesculo’s postings and sharp eye, Lord Korokshire’s association with Mister Lurelin has been both amplified beyond expectation, and drawn the ire of more traditionalist segments of the population. While in and of itself, the Crown officially recognizes no difficulties with their friendship, public perception amid that demographic has been skewed negatively, leading some members of the Senate to protest their continued association.”

“Meaning?” Lord Niko asks, and I want to slap some sense into him for being so willfully ignorant.

“Probably that these Senators don’t want a Princess of the Blood marrying a Sheikah sympathizer, let alone a, how did PompIsBomb put it? Oh yeah, a violet spook-fucker.” If I can’t actually slap him, words will have to do. Link pales, and Nudge looks ill.

“Language!” Claree barks at me.

“Learn from example, Sheik.” I growl right back. “I already know what happens when these prissy brats no longer have a use for you.” Between being expelled and this, my apparently well documented infringements in the public sphere have rendered me basically unemployable.

“Watch your tongue, _esclavin_.” She snarls.

“Claree!” Princess Tetra yelps. “That’s uncalled for.”

“So is _he_.” She hisses. “This has nothing to do with that criminal, only you and Lord Korokshire.”

“Are you blind?” I ask, cutting across her rage with the worst insult to ever give a Sheikah. It leaves her open mouthed and gasping in shock, and that takes the hot air right out of me, leaving only resigned despair. “Lord Korokshire’s reputation is at stake. That concerns both him and your _domine_ ’s future. If, like nearly all the country and probably ninety percent of the world that know they exist presume, her Highness and his Lordship will begin courting after their schooling is finished, that means Lord Korokshire’s reputation is tied intimately with the public’s perception of the Crown as a whole. While not calling in to question either the King or Princess Hilda’s ability to rule, it _will_ affect any relationship they may have with Princess Tetra. He can’t afford to be seen as having any sort of amicable interactions with me.” At least, he can't if he wants to court the Princess.

“Precisely.” The strawberry blonde Lady nods, and takes all of the room’s attention back and leaving me with their collective ire. It sits bitter and tough on the back of my tongue, the perfect after-dinner mint. At least it’s not as nasty as grease-weasel’s spunk, but I didn’t have to swallow that.

“Please continue, Lady Mako.” Princess Tetra instructs.

“Of course, your Highness. Now, there are a number of ways in which we can deal with the current situation, but Lady Nudge, Sir Gonzo, and I all wanted to understand what your intentions are with your current associations.” She clears her throat, glancing at me and reminding me forcibly of Shad. No wonder I like her, even if she’s bound and determined to tear ruthlessly into my past and my fears for the sake of exposing every sordid detail, just so she can know.

I guess I’m not going back to class this afternoon. Not that I’m technically a student anymore, anyway.

“Your Highness, are we correct in assuming that Lord Korokshire is currently your primary favorite in selecting a future husband?” Lady Mako asks, and Tetra nods.

“That is correct, though we would both prefer it remain an open secret.”

“Lord Korokshire, are we cor…”

“Link, Mako, please.” He whines, making me blink, and then try my best to swallow a smile.

“Link.” She doesn’t even try to hide her grin. “You want to marry Princess Tetra?”

“Of course.” He huffs.

“Good. Now that we’ve established no change in your relationship, the easiest option would be to disavow any further association with Sheik Lurelin, and explain the photo as a reward for eliminating the meteo wizzrobe from the Savingway on thirty-first street east.” She’s right. Smart. A credit to the Princess’ entourage.

“Not happening.” Link sing-songs, and Tetra snickers, waggling her eyebrows at him. He grins in return.

“It would be easiest.” I murmur into my hands. A neat, simple solution to the complex difficulty presented by his awareness of my existence.

“But not right.” Sir Zuko speaks up for the first time since Claree plated his meal. “Forgive me, Highness, but the Royal Family has already failed Mr. Lurelin once, and I personally would not enjoy witnessing a second failure of such magnitude.”

“Truth.” Claree coughs out, like it hurts her to do it and makes her want to vomit. Same, though.

“Which leads me to the second option.” Lady Mako says. “Following the first, for his service in the name of public safety, any one of us may nominate him for a civilian medal of honor and award an appropriate sum in recognition of his heroic actions.”

“That won’t pacify any of the Senators, and would send the traditionalists into a frothing rage.” I observe as neutrally as I can manage. Sir Zuko, Lady Senza, and Lady Nudge all nod.

“The third option would be to ensure that you complete your studies in the field of Formulaic Aetherial Defense to the highest degree, with the expectation that you would research a means to bar such manifestations from public buildings.” Lady Mako looks at me like she’s seeing me as an individual for the first time - which that doesn’t do anything for my nerves - and that plan has a major flaw.

Link’s hand moves to squeeze mine and I know I have to tell them before he does.

“I’ve been expelled.” I admit. Claree practically jumps for joy, and Niko sputters.

“There was a misunderstanding.” Link says, the pressure on my hand increasing. “It’s been dealt with.”

“What?” I croak. He can’t mean what I think he means. You can’t just re-enroll someone by asking nicely, and my tuition is so far beyond my means that even if I spent the rest of my life working I’d never be able to pay back a bachelor’s, let alone a doctorate like Lady Mako suggested. I needed that scholarship.

“I told you I was late for a reason.” He grins at me, eyes glittering with his enthusiasm.

“No.” I gasp, horrified. It is one thing to buy me a meal in exchange for a damn good blow-job, but it’s another entirely just to go and… “You didn’t. You…you…why…” I can’t seem to breathe around the lump in my throat that isn’t coming up from my gut or going down past my heart.

“Were you actually arrested?” He asks, smirking. Of course I…wasn’t. I _wasn’t_. Just thrown in the back of the cruiser, tossed in a cell, smacked around a bit, and groped on camera.

“No.” I gasp, enlightened. That means I didn’t break the terms of my scholarship, and with the security footage and PompIsBomb’s recordings available for anyone to watch, it’s damn clear that I wasn’t disturbing the peace, but protecting it. Legally. In a way anyone else could have, if they weren’t so busy panicking and running away.  I’m so used to not being able to fight or flee that it didn’t even occur to me to do either. I just…

“Do you want to go back to your dorm? Alone? Hungry?” He asks, his thumb caressing the back of my hand and making me twitch. It tickles, and is as weird as he is. Even if my old dorm hadn’t been cleared down to the floorboards, now that I’ve spent a day in his company, do I want to go back?

“…no.”  I gasp, the lump rising and trying to spill out my eyes. I won’t let it, but I can’t talk around it or move or even really breathe until it goes away. Just one day of not being a pariah, of not wondering where my next meal is coming from, of sleeping warm and clean, and he’s broken me. The fucking Hylian _bastard_.

I thought…I was stronger than this. Arrogant, for it. The Fierce Deity always finds a way to cut you down to size, though. Good fucking job, Kaya, to buckle like bad steel at the first sign of stress. Should have fucking seen it coming.

“I want to marry Tetra…” Link says to her entourage. “…and she doesn’t seem to have a problem with that. I know it will be at least three more years before I can really even think about courting her properly, and closer to five or seven before anything will actually happen.” Where is he going with this? If they plan on making it official, and if there were a tabloid that would believe me, I’d have it made.

“What are you thinking?” Lady Mako asks. If he marries into…I can’t believe it. I _can’t_. He can’t honestly be considering legitimately claiming me. There has to be something I’m not seeing. Something I’m missing. Something big, or he wouldn’t be teasing them like this and giving me an aneurism.

“When that happens, I’ll be part of the Royal Family.” He says, and his hand falls from mine, leaving me cold and lost, as out of place as a red Zora on Death Mountain and twice as terrified.

“You can’t seriously be considering that worthless…” Claree isn’t blind, seeing what I can’t from the pieces of the puzzle she has.  I’m obviously short more than a few.

“That’s _perfect_!” Princess Tetra crows, leaning over to kiss him a little more enthusiastically than public decency allows for. Not that the Royals are allowed P.D.A.s at all, but still. Technically we're not in public. I blink, utterly confused as to why Claree is so upset she’s choking and what has Lady Nudge laughing like a maniac.

“What’s perfect?” Niko asks, saving me the trouble.

“We’ll have to make it official then.” Link says, staring deep into Tetra’s eyes.

“I can accept that.” She says softly, resting her forehead against his.

“Are you sure?” He asks.

“Positive.” She giggles, giving him a quick peck before he pulls back and drops to one knee.

“Then, Princess Tetra Anne Zelda Hyrule, Duchess of Castletown, lady of my heart, would you consent to wear my ring - which I don’t have at the moment but will retrieve as quickly as possible - share my life, guard my dreams, and be my wife?” He proposes. Good shit, he _proposed_. There’s supposed to be fanfares and flowers and the only pink glitter present is from the riot yesterday and ground into the knee and hem of the jeans I’m wearing. What the entire fuck?! How does that relate to _anything_ we’ve been discussing except as incentive to drop me like a hot stone? 

“I will.” She nods, and tugs him up for another kiss that leaves everyone present awkwardly looking anywhere but at the two of them. Claree doesn’t have much of an issue with glaring at me, but like fuck I’m taking responsibility for something that’s been decades in the making and isn’t my fault. At all. He just fucking proposed, that’s all. She accepted. Holy fucking shit.

“Congratulations.” Lady Mako delivers with the same enthusiasm she’s shown for everything, but the rest of Princess Tetra’s entourage is more expressive. I hope she’s happy. I know Lord Hero is. He won his Princess, and they live happily ever after. The end. For fuck’s sake, they already talk without words. They’re doing it right now. He ducks his head and she snorts.

“Ask him then.” Tetra orders, shoving Lord Lincoln away with as much force as a falling tissue. He goes like he meant to turn around and takes my hands like he was holding hers.

“Hey, Kaya, want to be my Sheik?” He asks with a shit eating grin, making me go cold all over. Then hot. Then cold again.

_“Hey, Kaya. Dad says you might be my Sheik when we grow up. Pleased to meet you!”_

_“Hey, Kaya. Can you do that wind thing again and get my kite? It’s stuck.”_

_“Hey, Kaya! I haven’t seen you in a while, how are your studies going?”_

_“Hey, Kaya, does this tie go with my jacket?”_

_“Hey! Kaya! Want to come skiing this weekend? The pile is supposed to be amazing!”_

_“Sheik Kaya Lurelin, we regret to inform you…”_

“Kaya? Kaya! Can you hear me? Kaya!” Lord Lincoln is shouting. I’m so cold, and his hands are so warm on my cheeks that they feel wet. He’s kneeling. He shouldn’t kneel before me. I’m trash. Less than trash. Worthless. Why is he kneeling? Eran never…

Sheik.

Everything I ever aspired to. Everything. Legitimately. Not just posthumously. All of my dreams, hopes, plans and desires. Crushed as figuratively as Eran was literally. _Crushed_. Broken. I thought I was ready for this. I’m not. I’m _not_.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t...

I can’t!

…but I want to.

That deep darkness that lurks within my heart, the aching void I carry to this day, rises up and swallows me whole.


	6. Timing Is Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sheik's got issues. Link's got no luck. Niko's gonna need therapy.  
> Link's POV

I hate waiting rooms. The uncomfortable chairs. The hard surfaces. The silence broken only by a steady ticking provided by an analog clock that’s almost two minutes slow. The fake smiles and brightly colored walls. The television running ads about vitamins and immunizations and how to prevent slipping and falling and accidentally breaking your hip without sound and subtitles that don’t match the pictures.

The waiting.

I’m grateful for Niko’s support, but he should have gone back to class with everyone else.  This is entirely my fault. I need to take responsibility for it. But, as he said, he’s my friend, and friends help each other out. I’m pretty sure Sheik would have bolted if Niko hadn’t had a grip on his other arm fit to match mine, but he wouldn’t let anyone call an ambulance and Niko was the only one that didn’t even hesitate. Given how the shyest of my friends tends to freak out over anything resembling ghosts or the supernatural, he really surprised me today. In a good way.

After Sheik’s refusal, the sullen silence of his voice and rapid pounding of his heart hurt almost as much as the bruise I have forming on my left shoulder where he punched me. I’ve never seen a panic attack before, and apparently got a little too close. I’ll remember, though I’d rather there wasn’t a next time.

“Lord Lincoln Fitzherbert von Hestu, Lord Nikolas James Aboda?” A nurse calls out, and we stand and follow him down the hall and past the nursing station where the other three on shift are watching QueenGloom’s video posts and tittering. At least the one we’re following doesn’t seem to care for the office pastime, and knocks on the door.

“Sheik Kaya Lurelin? Lord von Hestu and Lord Aboda are here.” He calls, waiting, and for some inexplicable reason I find that strange. Anyone else would have just walked in and…my estimation of the nurse goes up quickly.  He’s the first person to treat Sheik like he’s just another patient. Just another person, myself included.

While that hot shame flashes through my system Sheik tells us exactly where to go, how to get there, what to take with us, and how we should carry it.

“Good Goddess.” Niko gasps.

“Perhaps if you returned in a few minutes, Sheik Lurelin will be more inclined towards visitors.” The nurse chuckles. He’s probably heard worse, since Sheik didn’t actually swear. He simply gave explicit and highly detailed – if technically physically impossible – examples.

“It’s fine.” I press, not actually sure it is, but growing more accustomed to Sheik’s lurid vocabulary. “He’s just stressed.”

“Anxiety, actually.” The nurse, name tag just reading Mija, glances at Sheik’s chart. “Though he was exposed to an extreme stressor recently that exacerbated his condition. That in turn elevated the adrenalin, serotonin, and white blood cell counts in his lab work. Do you know who beat him?”

“No.” Niko sighs even as I frown and say. “Yes.” Mija raises an eyebrow at me, and I can take the hint.

“It was a couple of days ago, and the perpetrator has been dealt with.” Suspended with pay was the best Renado could do, and even though I’d like to see him fired, I’ll take what I can get. I’m learning that when it comes to Sheik, that’s not a lot. I don’t like it one bit.

“Good.” Mija nods, and goes back to the chart. “Dr. Kayasa’s prescribed nortriptyline as a treatment option, but keeping him from aggravating his anxiety would work just as well in my opinion. He’s not violent or actively suicidal, and completely cognizant of his situation and surroundings. He’s an interesting fellow.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Niko grumbles, making me laugh. Sheik _is_ interesting, and if I have one besetting social sin, it’s that I want to _know_. Ruto isn’t the only one who’s mistaken my interest as a pursuit, and if he wanted to be left alone, Sheik should have never proven that he’s lived more already at barely twenty-four than some people do their entire lives.

“He’s fascinating.” I agree, and knock on the door again myself. “Sheik, you decent?” I ask.

“Never!” He grouses back, making me laugh.

“I’m coming in!” I tell him, and do, shutting the door behind me to keep Niko and Mija out just in case he actually isn’t.

“For a Hylian, you sure don’t listen well. Or talk.” He snarls at me from his hospital bed. The intravenous surprises me, though the heart monitor doesn’t, and the gown doesn’t do anything good for either his bruises or his gaunt frailty.

“Sorry?” It’s not really an apology, though it should be. I’m just not actually apologetic, and know he wouldn’t appreciate being lied to right now. He glares at me, and I’m so thankful he’s willing to look at me again that I grin.

“What are you so pleased about?” He spits out.

“That you’re okay.  Or will be.” I say, waving towards the half-empty bag of fluids dripping into his veins.

“No thanks to you.” He turns away, or tries to. There’s nowhere for him to go without a lot more effort.

“I thought you’d be happy.” I admit, and I’m still uncertain as to why he’s not.

“Of course you did.” He grunts. “You and your Thrice damned Hero complex.”

“Tell me why you aren’t.” I demand. “Tell me how to fix it. I promise I’ll listen.” I swear, and sit at the foot of his bed.  He draws his knees up to give me space…or to get away from casual contact. Maybe I’ve been reading him wrong this entire time. He stares at me, and wraps his arms around his legs, ducking his head but not looking away. Protecting himself. I have been reading him wrong. Or at least, not as well as I should. Listening to his words and not the intent behind them. I’m paying attention now, though, both to what he says and my assumptions about it.

“Serious?” He asks, voice trembling. He clears his throat immediately, but I’m sure that the longing I heard wasn’t anything else.

“One hundred percent.” I assure him. “Talk.”

“Why did you post my bail?” He asks, and it’s not what I expect at all. The question startles me, and I decide that from here on I’m just going to respond with the first thing that comes to mind, as long as it’s honest.

“Deputy-Commissioner Renado is Luda’s father, and he called and asked me to.” I shrug. It’s unnerving, those red eyes staring at me without so much as blinking, but if even a quarter of the rumors about Sheikah are based in some kind of truth, he’s watching for more than just keeping an eye on what I do.  Whatever he sees must be acceptable, because he doesn’t pull further away or give me the silent treatment, but he doesn’t uncurl at all, either.

“Did he ask you to follow me, too?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Before QueenGloom broke the security footage down frame-by frame, he couldn’t tell if you were unregulated, and asked me to find out. I was already nearby, and he trusts me.”

“So you decided kidnapping me was the best option?” He relaxes his grip on his knees just the slightest bit, and his tone holds a touch of humor to it.

“No. When I saw you, you were so thin and pale that I was concerned, and then when I caught you I could feel your spine through your hoodie.  Your ribs too. You’re too skinny, and I just…needed to feed you.” I blush, I can feel my face heating and the blood rushing to my nose and ears.

“Hero complex.” He snorts.

“Maybe a little.” I admit. “I didn’t…I mean, when you fell asleep I didn’t really think about it like that.  Just taking you somewhere for something more than a granola bar and juice.”

“And a diner halfway across the city was your first choice?” He questions.

“Uh, no.  Telma, my Chamberlain, and Renado’s wife, told me to go somewhere better than fast food but that didn’t have a dress code, and had a lot of options.  Quantity over quality, because you wouldn’t be used to the kind of food I usually eat.”

“Assumptions.”  He snaps. “I may not eat regularly, but I make sure what I do get is as nutritious as possible.”

“The diner was a mistake.” That much is painfully obvious.

“Clearly.”

“I usually plan my dates better than that.” I tease, hoping to distract him. He blinks and lifts his head off his knees.

“Dates? When did kidnapping me turn to a date?”

“You suggested it.” I remind him, and he tilts his head, then quirks his lips into something too small and soft to be a smile.

“I…did, didn’t I? Huh.”

“Do I get a do over?” I ask, hoping that he’ll say yes.

“Not a chance.” He shoots me down, hard and blunt as the chairs in the waiting room. “Every time we go somewhere to eat I wind up naked in a strange bed and completely unsatisfied.”

“…what?” I rasp, mouth parched and brain unable to process.

“You think I have pants on under this near tissue paper imitation of a gown?” He snorts.

“Uh. No?” He’s not wearing pants. Or a shirt. The gown isn’t actually made of tissue paper, but it is pretty thin. And short. With how his knees are drawn up against his chest I can see his legs from the calf down and darkness and the subtle curve of one buttock against the sheets. He laughs, lifting a leg so I can see more skin, and I realize that I’ve been ogling him blatantly.

“So.” He grins, leaning back and showing more leg, less shadow. “You were supposed to tail me for the Deputy Chief and got distracted, tried to feed me and got distracted, went somewhere you felt safe and got distracted, and then?”

“I, uh. Wait.  Huh?”

“You took me to your home like a lost housecat. Fed me some cream.”  He smirks, and my blush is back. “When did that turn into trying to collar me and call me your own?” The smirk falls as voice hardens.

“I wasn’t…”

“You asked me to be your Sheik, _Hero_.” He growls. “That’s exactly what a Sheik is.  A kept _thing_ , except sentient and cognizant of it.”

“I didn’t really decide anything until this morning, after seeing the Dean to straighten out the issues with your scholarship.”

“It’s not your problem.”

“It’s not right, that makes it my problem.”

“If that’s all it takes, you have way more problems than you know.”

“Which is why I didn’t sleep with you last night.” Impa explained enough of the _jus primae noctis_ that I understood what she expected.  What everyone expected, including Sheik.

“News flash, you did sleep with me.” He corrects, and that’s technically true. He’s pushing me to say it. Fine.

“Which is why I didn’t rape you last night.” I rephrase. “One of the reasons. I really was tired, too.” If we’re being completely truthful, part of the reason I was so tired was the expectation that I would, and the realization that everyone I know was, if not okay with that, then at least complicit.

“How many reasons were there?” His legs straighten out as he leans back against the headboard.  Not relaxed, but open. Willing to meet me halfway.

“A lot?”

“Tell me.”

“I just met you? I don’t go in for coercive sex? I wanted you to be able to choose?” I start.

“How selfless.” He sneers. “Tell me the truth, or get out.”

“I did!” I insist. “I just hoped that you would choose me. So I tried to make you a little more comfortable. Make your life easier. So you would like me.”

“My loyalty isn’t for _sale_ , hero, but my sex is. I might not be part of the union, but I told you, fifty rupees and a washroom.”

“That’s not…what I meant…I wanted to…” I sputter, feeling my heart sink into my gut. He sighs, and grabs his I.V. to slide down the thin crinkly-plastic covered mattress and sit next to me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his thigh next to my hand.

“If I say yes.” He whispers to the wall. “If I complete the vows I never had a chance to take with Prince Eran, give my life entirely to support and protect yours, and you die before I do for any reason, do you know what happens to me then?”

“No.” I whisper back. “But…”

“I die, Link.  That’s what the contract Grand Master Impa was carrying around stipulates. That’s what the magic of the _jus primae noctis_ guarantees.  The first night. I didn’t need it with Prince Eran, there were other official vows to take and a lifetime of bonding already secured, but even that nearly broke me, broke most of the spell work that had been completed. Then, when you rebuffed me, it absolutely shattered the last of what the Grand Master laid to fulfill the purpose of my training. I am, for the first time in my life, entirely free of the bindings of an _esclavin_ and the ultimate duty of a Sheik.”

“So…what…”

“I miss it.” He chokes, and I shut my mouth to listen, like I promised. “Even abandoned by the Royal Family, I had a duty, a sacred purpose, to protect the land and people of Hyrule. To give my life making the world a better, fairer place. I did the best I could, without the resources that I was supposed to have, for eleven years. For eleven years, I thought I hated them and everything they stood for. I had my duty, my responsibility, but none of the power of the office, no authority, and no one that would listen to the injustice and suffering that I saw.  I thought all three governmental branches were just keeping that power, without shouldering the responsibility of using it. Letting people suffer for sport.”

He gasps, and I can’t stop myself from wiping the tears from his face with a corner of the rough cotton blanket. I stay quiet though. I promised. If he’s going to trust me with the truth, I need to listen to it. That’s why the position of Sheik still exists. That, and being a shield. I didn’t understand as much about that, but it all needs to be changed even if it can’t be destroyed. It’s too important. I just…need to listen, and hear what he’s saying.

“I was wrong.” He coughs. “I knew it, but I didn’t want to see it. You…you and Princess Tetra made me have to acknowledge that, and that shit stings worse than a barinade. And with all the trouble from the traditionalists and the Senators, you _still_ wouldn’t just let it go. Let me go.”

“Do you want to be let go?” I ask.

“I don’t know!” He wails. “I prayed, Link. I prayed for _years_ , to be free of it all, and now…it’s been less than a day, and you want me to take it all back.”

“I want you to be happy.” I tell him. The whole truth. No matter what else happens, I want that. He bows his head, burying his face in his hands and pulling the monitor cord tight beneath the medical tape holding it in place. With a snarl, he tosses the clip against the wall, making the machine start beeping immediately. I wrap my arm around his back, and let him gasp, hoping he doesn’t pass out again and hoping that he does if it means he doesn’t have to hurt like this.

“Lord Lincoln?” Mija knocks, poking his head around the door.

“Can you turn it off?” I ask, and he nods.

“Of course. Do you want me to take the intravenous out as well? It’s nearly finished.”

“ _Yes_.” Sheik gasps, and holds his hand out for Mija to deal with. It doesn’t take long, and Niko comes in with a bag holding the clothes that I lent Sheik this morning.  He drops it on the bed along with discharge papers and follows Mija out, closing the door behind them both. I wait until Sheik has stopped shaking before I stand up to give him some privacy to change.

He catches my hand before I can take more than two steps, and tugs until I turn and face him.

“Yes.” He says, red eyes glittering in the hollow shadows of his face.

“Yes?” I ask, and then I get it. The last question I asked him.

He wants to be let go. To be free.

“I’ll…I’m still paying for your tuition.” I tell him. With that done, he won’t have to worry about the rigorous and restrictive terms of his scholarship, and can study what he wants at his own pace. Get a degree in a field that interests him, if what he’s studying now isn’t what he really wants.

“What?” He chokes. “No.  No, I’m saying _yes_ , you spoon.” The insult startles a laugh out of me, and then the full weight of what he means settles and squashes my good humor completely. Not my last question, then, but the one of greatest consequence.

“Are you certain?”

“As certain as I’ll ever be.” He bites his lip, nervous. It seems like a good idea, so I do too.

There was garlic in both the lasagna and on the asparagus, and he had black coffee, and tastes like both of those things to go along with the warm wetness that I expect of his mouth and something that I can’t place. It’s good, and if this is how Tetra and Malon and Ruto felt then I might have to initiate kisses more often. He tilts his chin up to make it easier for me to tangle my tongue around his, but misjudges the distance to the footboard and ends up falling backwards, sprawling awkwardly on the narrow hospital bed with a loud plastic creak. The odd sub-harmonies around him crescendo as he goes down.

That’s…perfect, actually. I can drape myself over him and hold his hand properly like this.

“Mm!” He grunts against my teeth as I press our chests together, and even if the sensation of him rising to press low against my stomach is new, it’s not bad. Just different. Unlike Tetra or Malon, even though he tangles his tongue around mine and sucks it into his mouth, he doesn’t press back. Unlike Ruto, he doesn’t suck hard. Just enough to welcome me, and let me know that this is okay.

“Hah…” I gasp, breaking the seal between our mouths to adjust, and he follows me up. I expect him to kiss me, draw me back. Not to roll his hips and prove that he’s responding in a way that’s unmistakable on a guy. Girls get wet. Guys get hard. He’s hard. Warm.

“You can’t rape the willing.” He rasps into my ear, and rolls up again, making me shudder at the sensation before his words make sense.

“What?” I jerk back further to look at his face. His red eyes and caramel skin and golden hair.

“I want you to fuck me.  Goddess, _please_ fuck me.” He says, with more desire than I thought was possible. Hearing it makes me moan, and that is enough for him to pull me back on top of him. The feel of legs rising to wrap around my waist is familiar, and when I reach down to help him move more onto the mattress my hand hits skin, reminding me that there’s only my slacks and underwear separating us.

His teeth snag my lip as I pant and pull back enough to turn that into just my underwear, but I need both hands to deal with that elastic and his grip is too tight for me to…

He sucks two of my fingers into his mouth and I’m reminded of how good he is with his tongue and his throat, moaning loudly and unable to resist pressing against him, underwear be damned.  He slathers those fingers with his tongue, absolutely covering them in spit before pulling my hand back and out. I have a second to appreciate just how disgusting that much saliva is before he guides my fingers back and presses them against hot, dry, puckered skin.

Even though it’s not what I intended, not when there’s lube in my room, I’m sure not going to argue if he wants it to be here and now. I can always do there, later. Always. I’ve not yet found the limits of my stamina. Tetra sometimes complains about it. Malon gets exasperated. I usually just masturbate to take care of it.

“Oh…shit, yes!” He gasps as I press a digit into a phenomenal tightness that makes my dick jump and drool in anticipation. He takes one finger as easily as Malon did the first time, so I push for two. That’s a bit more work, tight and hot and not quite slick enough, so I’ll need to stretch him carefully. It’s hard to think about making sure he’s comfortable when all I want to know is what he’ll be like when I’m inside of him. If he’ll cry out as we’re joined. That’s how Niko finds me, with my pants around my ankles and two fingers up Sheik’s ass.

“Holy Mother Hylia!” He squeaks, dropping his bag. His slate skitters across the floor and hits my foot, and I’d pick it up, but Sheik is bearing down on my fingers so my hand is kind of busy.

“Niko!” I yelp, and Sheik starts laughing. Loudly and more than a little hysterical. He lets go of my hand to clap both of his across his mouth, but it does nothing to muffle his giggles. I bend my forehead against his shoulder and can feel his chest bouncing as he laughs, feel him clenching in time with those breaths.

He would be _phenomenal_.

“Sorry!” Niko shrieks, grabbing at his bag and just spilling more pens and textbooks and a charger cable all over the floor. “Sorry!”

Well…darn.

Annoyed and frustrated, I leave Sheik sprawled out and snickering, tug my pants up, and go to wash my hands. There’s a sink just across the room, and even that short distance is enough that my fingers are half-dry, so it’s probably a good thing poor Niko doesn’t have any of the social graces needed. If there are social graces for this. Not that Sheik’s any better, but at least he’s let his legs down. Even tenting his gown, I can’t actually see anything interesting, and Niko’s too busy fumbling with his school stuff to look.

Hands clean, I go to help and have his Fresh Water Maintenance text in hand when my phone alarm goes off and –Reminder: Grand Master Appointment- flashes across my screen. Handing the book over, I swipe over the house line and call, praying that I’m not too late and knowing I am. Even if I broke every speed limit on the way, fifteen minutes isn’t enough time.

“Lord Lincoln, you wouldn’t believe who’s here.” Telma picks up, not even saying hello, with the drawled sweetness that I’ve learned means I’m in piles of trouble dripping from her voice.

“Uh, Grand Master Impa?” She’s early.

“For one.” Telma confirms. “Apparently she was expected?”

Oh. Oops. I wince, and Sheik looks at me with the kind of expression that Telma would be giving me if she was here.  If I was there, if I had told _anyone_ on the house staff, there wouldn’t be a problem. But I’m not, and there is a big problem, and I’m in for it, by the Goddess and all the Light Spirits combined.

“She, uh, is. I’m late, and I forgot to mention it. Please convey my apologies.” I murmur.

“Uh-huh. You know, hon, that you better hurry, right?”

“Yes, Mistress Telma. Thank you for your upstanding service.”

“Put a wiggle on it.” She orders, and hangs up.

“Time to go?” Sheik asks, winding his wrap thing around his arm.  Now that it’s not a tangled mess of fabric, I can see the marks are words, and recognize some lines of a devotional mantra to the old Goddesses scrawled across the inside.

“Yes. I, uh, the Grand Master is waiting back home.” I clear my throat. “We need to go, like, ten minutes ago.”

“Need help?” Niko offers, still blushing, but more composed now that Sheik’s not naked and getting better with each bit of clothing he puts on.

“Can you tell Tetra? About everything? And handle the discharge papers?” I ask, and he nods. Sheik stuffs the rest of his wrappings back into his bag and pulls the hoodie on, straightening the beads in his hair and tugging on the hem to adjust it.

“Let’s go, then.” He waves towards the door. “The Grand Master shouldn’t be inconvenienced any further.”

“I’m sorry.” I apologize to him, leaving Niko in the room texting and needing to quickstep to match his pace as he breezes past the nursing station and the sudden silence that bursts into chatter as soon as we turn the corner.

“Where did you park?” He asks, pressing the call button for the elevator.

“The western guest lot. We can come back tonight so you can pick up some of your things from the dorm.” I offer. “I can rent a truck tomorrow for the rest.”

“No need.” He flinches.

“You’d feel better with a clean outfit, at least.” There’s not a lot of blood on the sleeve of my old hoodie, but it’s there, and even though jeans can usually be worn twice before needing a wash, that’s not the case today. Where did that pink glitter come from?

“I meant there’s nothing there.” He clarifies, tone flat and once again, not looking at me. “The waiting list for on campus dorms is long, so as soon as one becomes available, it’s filled.” The elevator dings and he gets on, jamming the main floor button hard and leaving me the option to follow or wait for the next one.  I follow, thinking. I haven’t known him long, but I recognize the evasion for what it is. He doesn’t want to talk about it, which means it hurts him somehow, and of course that means I can’t leave it alone. Not if I want to fix it.

Not if I want him to be happy.

He stalks out of the elevator before the doors fully open, into the crowd of people that somehow move to give him more space than he needs and leaving me with next to none. The easiest way to claim some of that territory back is the way I did in Uncle Goriya’s before I lost him. Grabbing his hand also makes him slow down a bit, which is all to the good. It’s difficult to walk with any type of speed while sporting an erection.

“You would feel better with a clean outfit.” I insist, learning to listen to what he doesn’t say as much as what he does. “I’ll call Senza tonight, and we’ll go shopping tomorrow for some clothes.”

“I have Temple tomorrow.” He says. It’s not an argument, not directly, too mild to be a refusal, but I’m starting to understand what my Sociology 110 professor meant when he spoke of how people cope when fight or flight isn’t an option.

“When?” It can’t last all day, and the malls are open late.

“Service is at ten, with a… _blot_. It’s…like a lunch.” He murmurs, slowing further as we reach the automatic doors and get hit by a blast of air that reminds me winter isn’t done with us yet.

“Do you need to bring anything?” I ask, keeping him talking and shivering as it’s my turn to hurry. It’s not _that_ cold out for the end of winter, but the wind bites through my layers, and Sheik is only wearing one.

“Just what you can. I haven’t for a long time.” He admits, ashamed.

“Ask Telma when we get back home.” I say, unlocking the door and turning the heat up full blast before I even buckle. “Please. It will distract her from being angry with me because I forgot to mention the Grand Master was coming.”

“Alright.” He agrees, no colorful language or complaints. Given the last thing he agreed to before being a decoy for my household manager, he’s either acting on that or as scared of Grand Master Impa as I am and wants to be far away when I get scolded for being late.

Since the doctor wanted to prescribe anxiety medication, I’m betting on the latter. Not that Grand Master Impa isn’t terrifying, just, he’s so scared all the time that I can’t tell if it’s something specific or something I have no control over.

I’m confident though, now, that I won’t spend Reading Week just catching up on my readings.


	7. What The Cat Dragged In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when things were getting uncomfortable...

Sitting in Lord Lincoln’s Epona outside of the Castletown Central Civic Center, waiting for _bedstemor_ Purah and holding a tray of Telma’s famous butter buns to go along with the casserole dish in the back seat full of slow roasted beef and a new jar of fancy mustard, I can smell myself. I stink of the kinds of shit I’d never expected to, and I’m not all too pleased to be reeking of it now. 

Whatever kind of sadistic olfactory fuck decided that ‘fresh cotton’ was a scent that needed to be pounded into every fiber of fabric should be dragged out into the street and kneecapped on public television for the good of the people. I miss the gentle waft of linden and loam that blankets Korokshire’s miasma, but whenever I inhale the Thrice damned cotton crap rises like Kafei’s laughter will the moment he lays eyes on me, snide and mocking. Reminding me of yet another unfulfilled promise and duties I need to see to.

At least my ass smells like ass and not syrupy sweet chocolate cherries. That shit was popped years ago, but the Grand Master couldn’t even partially revive the bindings of the _esclavin_  after whatever she and Lord Lincoln talked about, let alone perform all the work that will need to go into transferring the tattered threads of magic to make me his Sheik. It’d be easier to just rip out the remnants and start over, but apparently that’s off the table just because of a little excruciating pain. Just like fucking me is off the table because of a little dubious consent in the wording and execution of the contract she presented to him.

Like I’m nothing more than words in a contract. Like what I want doesn’t matter, and Holy Hylia do I want a good dicking. Being stuck in close proximity to Lord Lincoln for an extended period of time when he hits every one of my “yes, please” buttons has me leaning in just to imagine I can feel his body heat, imagine what it would be like having _that_ as a living blanket pressing me into the mattress. I can almost feel him grabbing the ridge of my hip, pressing in, stretching…it’s so bad that I’d even offer grease-weasel a discount as long as he didn’t try and get cute with the kisses and the cuddling.

_Fuck_ Link and his _stupid_ Hero complex.

I mean, yeah, there are ways to _be as one_ and _share essence_ that don’t involve sex. Lots of ‘em. Bleeding, for one, but that tripe’s inspired way too many bad romantic vampire fiction authors for even _me_ to be comfortable with it, and I don’t have a lot of hard limits. Pretty much that, and scat play or golden showers. I like being _clean_ , so blood, piss, shit and puke are only acceptable if they aren’t intended, and even then, ew. Fucking gross. So those, spiders, and maybe bare-back gang-bangs, but that’s it.

Sharing our lives to the point where he and I would be like he and Tetra are now is another. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, but it takes too damn long. Literally decades, unless those involved are too young to have developed much of a personality, so that’s entirely out. I may be salty and bitter and more than a little jaded, but I _like_ me, and I’m pretty sure Link is just as attached to his habits as I am to mine. I’ve already changed so many of them I’ve lost count getting to this point with him, but my ability to seethe instead of despair is something I intend to keep close until the day I get to stay in the Silent Realm of my choosing.

Visiting the Temples, and not Temple like I’m waiting for now but the ancient, primal Temples of the elements, conquering their challenges, and pledging ourselves to uphold the bond in all its intent is another. Fuck no. Just, no. You couldn’t drag me back to the Temple of Time if it were the last standing structure for days in the middle of a blizzard, and the Spirit Temple isn’t exactly conveniently located. I’ve never been, and doubt I’ll ever have the opportunity. Pray I’ll never have the opportunity. The dead in the desert can kill, and sure as Stalfos they will go after spooks first. It’s our fault they can’t rest.

Here in Castletown - most of Hyrule actually - it’s not a problem. _Most_ places the dead don’t linger, and those that they do, well, there are enough Sheikah and enough half and partial bloods that almost anyone with any mage talent can send them to sleep, if they take the time to bother. Of course, the purer the bloodline, the more dead and the more consequential dead can be handled. Hylia’s insurance against Demise’s Corruption, for those that stayed to fight. A pure bloodline combined with piety guarantees that there are options available. Thus, I go to Temple every week. It’s no Trinity Church, but it’s more of a home than anywhere I’ve lived in the last decade, and it’s the people, not the location that makes it that way.

Kafei, Hanju, Danpe, Hina, Karun, Robi, Grant, Daka, Kahti. The family that I never had until a year or two after I needed one. _Bedstemor_ Purah, too, of course, the grandmother that so many of us never had the chance to know. She’s insane, but then again, I’m not so sure I should complain, and I’m a third her age. My generation has it better than hers did, and my list of missing and murdered is as long as the list of living and whole. Gumi’s just the latest to balance it out now that I’ve meet Claree.

Kafei’s out and sauntering about again at least, which is great because Hanju’s pregnant and pleased about it, which means it was intentional…or at least not unwanted. As awkward as having Lord Hero drop me and my contribution off is, I’m intensely grateful that he volunteered to do it now that their pairing is legitimate. They deserve a treat that’s better than the beans, crackers, noodles, and bruised produce that we can usually scrounge together. And fuck me with a barge pole, but if I can spot that mark of beginning, then pinpointing the high priestess is a piece of cake.

_Bedstemor_ Purah’ _s_ tiny, but distinctive, and with her here to sign for the rental room I have somewhere to actually put the food currently in my lap. Careful not to crush the freshly baked bread, holding the Epona’s door open with my foot to keep it from swinging back and bumping me, I stack the buns on the roof and realize that there’s too much food for me to carry in one trip. I don’t remember that ever happening before to any of us, and that weirds me out, just like almost everything that’s occurred since Link took me in like a stray and half-feral pet.

Best not even think about it, just in case _bedstemor_ Purah actually can read minds.

“Need a hand?” Link offers from the driver’s side, leaning over to talk to me for the first time today. He’s brave, I’ll give him that. I was serious when I threatened to cut out his tongue if he kept doing nothing but wagging it or sticking it in my mouth. Given he’s offering to actually fucking _do_ something, and _asking_ me about it first, he can keep it. For now. As long as he doesn’t try and slip it to me again. I want his dick and the certainty that comes with being his property, not his misplaced affection. That mess is something I haven’t the first clue what to do with.

“I’ll be fine, just need two trips.” I tell him, and kick the door shut in his face, hoping he’ll take the hint and stay put.  The last thing I need is for Hawa to see me trailing a Hylian around, let alone _that_ kind of Hylian. The kind who just pays for people’s entire fucking tuition on a whim, who rejects generations of tradition because he doesn’t think they’re fair, the kind who proposes to a Princess and is _accepted_. Yeah, he’s nice to look at, and incredibly kind, but having her witness it would be letting a stray dog shit on your freshly mowed lawn.

“Kaya! _Du ylia_.” Kafei greets, holding the door so I can get through with the tray of buns and clapping me on the back as I pass. Not saying anything about a day spent in the holding cell. Good.

“ _Ya_.” I snort, but grin back at him. Another week survived. “You’re lucky. It must be catching.” I tease, pointing at Hanju with my chin, making him laugh and blush. He follows me into the meeting room _bedstemor_ Purah’s booked this week and takes Hanju’s coat to drape it over the back of one of the folding chairs, hovering. As he should. It’s his fucking spawn, and he intends to be a father to them, even if they’re only a few days along in the whole incarnation thing and it’s by no means a done deal.

Grant and Kahti finish setting up a table against the eastern wall, and I put the tray near the left side so people can take a bun and fill it with food instead of needing to flitch paper towel from the washroom to use as plates like we normally do. Danpe and Kahti might be able to help me with my Hero induced issue. Both of them are an option once the ritual’s finished, though I’d prefer Kahti. Danpe’s old, mean, and thick enough that it’s a concern, but he always has a condom and makes sure I get off too. Kahti’s nice, but is as poor as I am, so condoms are few and far between, and sometimes he forgets to let me ride him and treat myself after he’s done.

Nobody’s perfect. Just look at the hot mess that’s me.

“Where do you want this, Sheik?” Link asks, and I feel a few vertebra pop with how quick every muscle in my back tenses. He was supposed to stay in the car, come pick me up at twelve-thirty, and not be here.

“Oh, snap!” _Bedstemor_ Purah laughs. I’m so dead. “Look what the cat dragged in.” She doesn’t even try to pretend at politeness, though Link doesn’t understand the slang. No one who still speaks Middle Hyrulean would miss it, but he doesn’t, and I thank the Fierce Deity for small favors and muted snickering.

“I assure you ma’am, I’m just helping him bring this in, and I’ll be out of your way.” He somehow manages to bow without tilting the casserole dish or making the motion look weird, and the mustard’s stuffed in his jacket pocket so that’s an accomplishment in itself.

“You’re not in the way, dear boy. Stay. I’m sure Kaya would appreciate your penis, ah, presence.” She drawls, pretending the verbal substitution is an unfortunate Freudian accident. Everyone is eyeing me, but I can’t deny either statement. To make absolutely certain the entire congregation knows I’m fucking violet, she just has to take it one step further and have me confirm it. “Isn’t that right, Kaya?”

“Yes, priestess.” I bow – deeper and more fully than Link did – to her whims. Din damn it, I can’t help who I’m attracted to. I can’t lie about it, either. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel the intended shame. If my face is half as red as my eyes, it’ll at least help distract from the bruises.

“Wonderful!” She claps her hands together. “Put the food on the table, dearie, and then you can sit while we get things ready.” Orders given, everyone there busies themselves setting up instead of staring. Link puts the casserole dish on the table, mustard next to it, and sits next to Hanju and Pati, striking up a conversation with them and probably oblivious that he’s instinctively seated himself with the two people most directly responsible for preserving what little remains of our traditional way of life.

I keep a sly eye on his behavior while I straighten the casserole for proper presentation and help set up the rest of the folding chairs and tables that we’ll need, and need to reassess my estimation of him upward. Again. Bloody fuck. When I look at Pati and her daughter Hanju, I see Pati Cleverfingers and Hanju Cloudskipper. Weaver and dancer. Lore-keeper and storyteller. Whatever drew him to them, he’s polite, and quiet, and listens to them intently. More than he listens to me. Maybe they just have better words than I do. Not that I don’t have words.

Envy. That’s a word I can name easier than I care to.

But I know my place, even if he won’t let me claim it…even if he won’t claim me.

I have no idea how much of my yearning is expectation, how much is delayed gratification, and how much is the broken magic encircling me like a shroud, but it’s getting to the point that even Grant’s cock is looking like a good place to sit, and he’s as far from violet as you can get. Finds me personally distasteful on top of that. Farore, do I need to be topped.

After service, maybe, while everyone is cramming actual meat in their mouths, I can convince someone to cram their meat in me. There are a couple others that are usually up for it, don’t pardon the pun. But not now. Not here. Not once I’ve cast the circle, and with the scent of incense covering up fake cotton, it’s nearly time to begin.

Unlike Trinity Church, designed to awe and inspire with overwhelming presence and grand vaulted ceilings – jeweled and painted more than a gaudy hooker – Temple isn’t dedicated to a single deity, and we sit in a lopsided round facing each other instead of like an audience to be pandered to. Equal before the divine and each other. I don’t know who Link holds closest, if he even gives credence to any aside from Hylia, but it doesn’t matter. _Bedstemor_ Purah said he could be here, and what she says, goes.

Because the Fierce Deity likes to give people their just rewards, judgement and justice to Majora’s chaos and capriciousness, once I’ve sealed the space and made it sanctuary we get to talk about the meteo wizzrobe in the Savingway. Unlike the Wolfos, Lionel, or Chu-chus, I was there, and can give my impressions. Unlike Midna’s Chirps, the focus isn’t on what I did or did not do, or whether or not what I did or did not do was done right. It’s on the grade and ranking of the indicators that Demise’s Oath is imminently rising. That the Resurgence is coming.

All my presence there means is that I can warn everyone here, and they can, in turn, spread the truth through the Gossip Stones. And if the Stones aren’t exactly the kind of unregulated magic that the Witchfinder is boning for, I’ll eat my runners without sauce. I’d take it to Hyrule Network News, but even before I flung those damned eggs I’ve had to follow the rules beyond the letter of the law as Eran’s scapegrace failure of a Sheik. The Witchfinder Extraordinaire knows my full name, birthplace, number, and sigil, after all.

“…at a cautious grade two. The ceramic tiles weren’t melting themselves, just the glue holding them to the cement along with some of the subflooring. Three, three twenty-five degrees at most.” I conclude. More than enough to send Hot Shit to the hospital with second degree burns, but out of all the casualties he was the worst off. No one died. Still.

“Thank you, Kaya Truthspeaker.” Karun nods, and I know I’ll be getting an e-mail with my exact dictation by tomorrow morning. I won’t read it, given that I have classes to catch up on and essays to write, but I will receive the information. He’s reliable like that, if as boring as unsalted bread.

“Other news?” _Bedstemor_ Purah asks.

“The Silent Princesses in the Butterfly Conservatory at the Forestry Farm have sprouted.” Hina smiles, and passes around her phone to show off the pictures. The bright green buds are vibrant against the thick, black soil and one piece of truly fantastic news.  As long as they bloom, Hylia keeps Her vigil. Like the gerahudo, that desert rose from which the Gerudo take their name, the Silent Princess is a sign of Divine protection and benediction. Nayru knows we all need a little bit of that, right now. Especially Hanju, and the burgeoning life she carries within.

“I found some temp work at River Landing.”

“I sold six wards through Kuro’s Curios.”

“Looking for some help with my biology class, I need to boost my mark to at least an eight-five.”

“Landlord’s letting me grow herbs, if anyone has some pots or seeds I can use.”

As we work our way around the circle, I get the distinct pleasure of knowing that Nayru’s about to call in Her due. Like a low pressure system sweeping in, or the heat that calls thunderstorms to the sky, it sears along my skin beneath the bindings I wear to Her honor, headache included.

“…old rags for a quilt.” Pati says.  I missed Hanju’s update entirely, and the banner passes to the only Hylian in the room.

“I intend to make Kaya Lurelin my Sheik as soon as possible…” Link says to the whole assembly and I can feel my eyes widen in horror as I see him fiddling with the Speaker’s banner. “…but I don’t want to make him my slave. Does anyone here have any ideas on how to change that?”

“No.” _Bestemor_ Purah barks like the bitch she sometimes pretends to be. “Nor would we tell you if we did. To be a Sheik for a child of the Goddess is the highest honor a Sheikah can be asked to bear. Kaya is humbled and grateful for your consideration.” And that should be the end of it. With Link though, it never is. He’s as unmovable as a hibernating dragon when he decides to go all obstinate.  I thought that I thought it was cute, and it might have been when he was a kid, but now it’s just wearying.  Worrying, that I recognize the particular set of his jaw already.

“A name is just a name, Lord Lincoln.” Hanju consoles him, patting his arm, and Nayru’s will descends with enough force to leave me breathless. “It is how you treat Kaya that will show the truth. We are our deeds.”

“Truth.” Echoes from throats around the room, male and female, young and old, proving the ethical truism is at least known and accepted. I need to think, meditate, pray on that, because I _thought_ I knew it. The blatant rebuke from the Goddess of my devotion destroys what arrogance I may have taken from it.

I have not…shown my worth. Not to Lord Lincoln. Not to Princess Tetra. Not to Grand Master Impa. Not even to myself. The world is a cold, brutal bitch, but I don’t have to be. That’s the truth. Sketching a Holy Triangle before myself, I vow to be kinder to those who show me kindness, and gentler with my expectations on myself. The weight of external expectation lifts enough that I can breathe again, so at least I got that much right.

“Thank you. You’ve given me much to think about.” Link nods, and passes the banner on. Soka, Robi, and Ilya’s news consists of small, personal achievements.  Turning over a flowerbed for a neighbor. Getting a petition going for A.R.G. to pay attention to Gumi’s disappearance, with more than two hundred signatures and counting. Learning a new embroidery stitch. All worthy of praise. Then it comes to me.

“I’ve had a rough week.” I say as soon as the banner settles in my hands. “Banished a wizzrobe, was pseudo-arrested for it, lost my dorm room and scholarship, got to be on the news, missed some classes and should have slept through three others.  Met a lordling who, out of the kindness of his heart and the depths of his family’s wallet, has fed, housed, clothed, and cared for me for the last three days. I haven’t been very nice to him in return, but I will be better. Starting now.” I state, and pass the banner on.

_Bedstemor_ Purah’s a mass of smug satisfaction to Link’s stumbling bewilderment, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. We finish updating each other about our lives, and _bedstemor_ Purah calls the elements to attend as we devote the strength of the circle to Farore. Last week was Din. Next will be Nayru. Even though no one is Majora’s, we still give Her dues. Only Demise and the Dark Lord are left out, though no one dares mention the Fierce Deity by name and accidentally call down His attention on themselves. His judgement is true…but brutal and without mercy. Not a comfortable deity to owe one’s allegiance to.

Joining my power in the Temple circle is almost good enough that I can ignore the ache of my unfulfilled purpose and the desire that it brings.  Almost. It is enough of a connection that I can postpone my satisfaction yet again, but Lord Hero and I are definitely going to need to talk, and I’m going to have to be as explicit in my meaning as I can be with my rhetoric.

Once the dedication is set, I release the Seal of Sanctuary, and he winces like someone popped a balloon behind him unexpectedly. Can he…hear my magic? That…would certainly explain a lot. I’ll have to ask, later.  For now, while the line for food forms up, I congratulate Hanju and offer to cast Daruk’s Protection on her, which she accepts. It’s the least I can do, and I’ll do it as often as she wants, especially now that her health has taken a drastic step sideways. I text Chiya a few of the authors I can remember for her biology class since I don’t have the time to tutor her myself, see that Link is engaged in conversation with Pati, and that Danpe is packing up early, leaving me at loose ends.

Given how much I’ve eaten in the last two days, including the size of breakfast, I have no appetite to speak of, and don’t bother with more than tea. There won’t be leftovers, and I’m pretty sure that Link thinks he can feed me lunch when we go to meet with his friend Senza at the mall. I’d like to see him try…but I won’t fight him on it.  I promised. He’s just being kind when he does it, and is so deeply engrossed with something Pati is saying at the moment that I dare not interrupt.

“He turn your ass into a cunt, yet?” Hawa sneers as she pours herself half the brew and takes all but one of the assorted fast food restaurant sugar packets.

“You turn your mouth into a toilet, or does the shit just fill it naturally?” I murmur in return, and walk away. She can either leave her food and tea-syrup, or follow to hurl more verbal diarrhea at me, but _bedstemor_ Purah’s warned her about language before. Warned me too, for that matter, but for different reasons.  I give graphic detail, she tries to hurt. Of course, as I expect, she stays to eat. I can’t even blame her gluttony for it. The cook at Korokshire is good, but Telma’s personal touch elevates the simple dish to something fantastic.

Kahti’s next in line for food, and I wave to him as I head toward the conference room doors. He waves back with a grin. I leave, wanting some space before getting crowded. Not too far, though, and definitely not far enough from the obvious religious gathering happening that the driver of the A.R.G. cruiser parked outside has a reason to hunt me down. Happens every week. I grimace, and look for somewhere out of the way to sit. Close enough for Kahti to hopefully join me, without running into any problems.

I hold my waxed paper cup of tea in both hands, thankful that it’s not too hot, and slide against the wall outside the meeting room to sit on the floor. It’ll do. I don’t have long to wait, but the quiet in those brief moments is nice. The approaching footsteps don’t upset that peace, though they do make it less lonely.

“Hey, Kaya.” Kahti says, sitting next to me with a bun in each hand, both filled with beef and greens. Good. He needs to eat more. So do I, for that matter. It’ll happen eventually, or not, and doesn’t matter when the closest thing I’ve ever had to a lover is here and warm and hopefully willing.

“Hey.” I return. The acknowledgement is enough to content him, and I sip at my tea while he’s careful not to waste a single crumb. Even though I’m not hungry, it smells good, and if it weren’t for my change in fortune I’d be doing the same. That quality of food, up until yesterday, was something I never dared hope for. I still have trouble thinking that I can anticipate it. Kahti, a student at Castletown Polytechnic, is in the same financial straits I was until recently.

Dependent on a scholarship that doesn’t account for food, studying hard enough that even if he could get a job, the hours wouldn’t do much. He tries anyway, applying to every entry level job and fast food and retail position he could get to with the state of the transit system. Being half-spook and looking full, with a name that’s just as bad as mine, he never gets a call-back. Mostly, he draws landmarks on poster board and sells the pictures for ten rupees apiece without a peddler’s license. I just spent time on my knees for strangers in a disreputable bar with no pimp or boss or madam or union dues instead.

We understand each other. You do what – or who – you have to do. Before it was cleaned out, I had three of his pictures on my dorm wall. Lake Hylia, with the spire of the Water Temple breaking the surface on a windy day. Castletown, from the peak of Death Mountain. Hyrule Field coming up to Lon Lon Nature Preserve. I didn’t mind spending time on my knees for him in exchange. Still don’t. Or bending over for that matter, but the health centers run out of condoms and lube quick on the weekends. He finishes his meal and sighs, leaning back to rest against the wall. I hold my empty cup.

Somehow, my head ends up on his shoulder as _bedstemor_ Purah cackles at something in the meeting room. He smells like soap and skin, not synthetic bullshit that’s supposed to remind people of an idealized conception of cotton, and I breathe the familiar comfort in as deeply as I can. He doesn’t try and stick his tongue down my throat, or play with my hands, but instead sits quietly and lets me rest. Not asking for anything more than that. I’ll miss him. I’ll miss them all. Even Hawa. If Kahti’s shoulder gets a little damp, he doesn’t say anything about that, either. I’m grateful for it.

At quarter to twelve according to the ancient analog clock over the Civic Center’s pool doors, he sighs and pats my knee.  Slides his hand up to squeeze my thigh. I spread my legs for him, and he moves to palm my dick, fingers brushing further down. Even if I hadn’t been half hard for the last couple hours, I’d get there with that knowing touch.

“Got time for one last go?” He asks. Half an hour should be enough, and I told Link I’d be done at twelve thirty. Just because he stayed to chat doesn’t change that.

“Yeah, got the stuff?” I nod, curling in to get my feet under me so I can stand.

“Lucky!” He sing-songs, holding up two condoms. Good enough. He follows me to the men’s room and into the accessibility stall, locking the door as I drop my pants and grab hold of the handrail.  His hands are warm as they squeeze my butt, and I hold the packet of lube he hands me while he rolls on one of the condoms. He’s been hard since halfway through his second bun, so the rubber rolls on like water goes downhill.

After prepping myself for Lord Lincoln three nights running with no result, Kahti’s fingers have no trouble greasing up my backdoor. He wipes them off on the one-ply and tosses it in the shitter, and I face the wall and arch my back, spreading my knees as wide as they’ll go with my pants around my ankles. Presenting myself, for perusal and penetration, just like Rusl taught me to. After prepping myself for Lord Lincoln three nights running with no result, I’ve been ready for three nights running. Seeing the condoms was enough to keep me fully hard, the hand around my dick is just a bonus.

Kahti’s considerate, he doesn’t tease. He does pause long enough for me to know he’s there, but doesn’t make me beg. Just lines up, and reaches around to cover my mouth when he slides his cock up my ass in a slow, steady push.  Just the way I like it. He’s learned over the years that I make too much noise for fucking in a public place. I can’t help it. It feels so damn good. I push back, wanting all of it. I _know_ I’m going to get it. I just want it. All.

Now.

“Fu..uck, Kaya.” He pants into my hair once he’s balls deep, wrapping his arms around my chest and hips to hold me still so he can get to dicking as quick as possible. His right hand stays over my mouth, keeping me quiet enough that the staff won’t notice, while his left tucks between my legs and behind my balls to toy with my asshole, making me go cross-eyed and dance for him. I moan around his fingers loud enough to echo as he moves.

There’s a kind of fullness, a completion, a gasping mindless certainty that comes when you’re helplessly impaled on a hard cock. I found out the first time I traded my ass for a place to sleep that I love it. The stretch, the heat, the satisfaction. By the third time, I didn’t even need to do the five knuckle shuffle to get off. Just feeling Janitor Rusl dip his banana in my chocolate pudding cup was enough. To him, I was just a convenient, tight, underage hole to fuck while his wife was pregnant. To Kahti, I’m a partner in crime, and getting off is the goal. He tries, for me, and that’s toe-curling fucking _good_.

When he manages to push a finger in next to his dick, the world goes black and my eyes roll back in my head as I spray the tiles. He holds me up as my thighs give out, not really pulling out as he ruts, riding me through my orgasm and into his. He stays there, a perfect one-bar prison, until he’s calmed enough to roll his hips against mine, knowing how much I enjoy the sliding of a shaft into my body even when it’s going soft. Fuck, sometimes fingers alone are enough. A cock is always best though.

When his is as limp as it’s going to get while the possibility of dumping another load into the condom exists, he tugs it out of me. I moan my disappointment into his hand, but we really don’t have time. As much as I’d like to stay pinned to the wall until he can go again, the clock is ticking, and by next week I’ll be Lord Lincoln’s property. As a quickie, it was decent. As a farewell fuck, it’s as unsatisfactory as my hand, but it’s the best I can do.

Condom in the trash, lube froth on the toilet paper and flushed, I take the time to straighten my hair and beads, piss, and wash my hands and face before moving to follow Kahti back to the meeting room. He thinks the pat on the ass is a thank you. I use it to slip grease-weasel’s three purple rupee notes into his pocket. Money can’t help me where I’m going, and where I’m going is straight into the arms of Officer Land Whale who was waiting, hard and hot, outside the bathroom door.

“Kaya Lurelin.” He grunts, the onion on his burger from lunch making his breath reek as his gut knocks me against the wall.

“Hey!” Kahti protests, until he sees the badge. Then he goes quiet and still, and that’s really the best thing for both of us. Don’t fight back. Don’t give them an excuse. Be as pathetic as possible, and they just might not find it fun to see you do the lightning rod dance.

“Kohga!” An unfamiliar voice growls, and instead of being pinned to the wall of a bathroom stall I’m pressed against a wall with a glass display case of paper snowflakes cut out by five year olds as sausage fingers caress my thighs and squeeze my ass. Kahti had no trouble, but even if he lifted his gut up enough to show off his danglies I’m pretty sure Land-Whale’s too tiny to stick it in me without waffle-stomping me to the floor first. Not that that would take long.

“Deputy-Commissioner!” Land-Whale yelps. “I was just about to arrest this spook for sex trafficking.” His hand toys with my waistband and slides inside Lord Lincoln’s ill-fitting jeans.

“Liar.” Kahti snarls, fists clenched at his side. He knows better than to fight though. We both do.

“So you weren’t fucking him in the bathroom for the last fifteen minutes?” Land-Whale pretends to be incredulous while his fat fingers toy with my hole. I cleaned up well, there’s nothing left to ease the passage of the first one, and the second is downright huge.

“I was, but I sure didn’t pay him for it.” Kahti admits. I whine as three fingers crook up and press, dry and uncomfortable, even if I can take them. If I couldn’t, well, they’d be up there anyway, and blood makes for horrible lube.

“His pimp, then.” Kohga grunts, his other hand tugging on my braid and yanking my head back enough that I can see the other person here, watching him finger me.

“Gentlemen.” A tall man – actually in uniform – as dark as I am even if his eyes are brown, raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure that you all have somewhere much more important to be.”

“Yessir.” Kahti bows out, not running, but sure as shit not sticking around to watch. I’d run too, but Land-Whale is trying for a forth now that one, two, and three are knuckle deep. It stings, and I do my damnedest not to kick him where it counts. Assaulting an officer, even off duty, means guaranteed jail time. As prison bitches go, I’d be a textbook example.

“Officer Kohga, remove your hand.” The Deputy-Commissioner half-spook demands.

“Gathering evidence, sir.” He says, and pushes up, making me gasp as my eyes water. Definitely need more lube for this shit, or any. Any would be nice.

“So am I. Remove your hand, or have it removed.” The threat is very real, and he pulls his fingers from me fast enough that I can’t help crying out in pain.

“He’s clean.” Land-Whale states, like the fact there’s no shit or spunk on his fingers is a disappointment.

“You’re not. I’m placing you under arrest.” The Deputy-Commissioner states, cool and calm demeanor hiding exactly how fucking pissed off he is. I just want to leave. Nothing good will come of sticking around at this point.

“You’re arresting me? For doing my job?” Kohga snarls.

“I’m arresting you for sexual assault, which I personally witnessed. You don’t need to stay, Sheik Lurelin.” He says to me, and sure as fuck I don’t. I also don’t need to be told twice.

I remember to tug the hem of Link’s hoodie back over my waistband before standing close by him while he chats with Pati. Normally I’d help clean up, but not today. I don’t really want to go shopping with this Senza, either, but if I tell him that he’ll ask why. I explained last night, and gave in last night too. The only thing that’s changed since then is something that I don’t want to tell him about at all.  The Deputy-Commissioner is taking care of it, anyway, and if I explained that, I’d have to explain why Officer Kohga was able to get three fingers in me so easily in the first place.

It’s not guilt, I don’t owe Link anything, didn’t do anything wrong. Shame though, for being violet, for not fighting anyway, being spook, being weak, being stupid, and more…that feeling is as unpleasant as Land-Whale’s fingers and just as imposed. Familiar. I can deal.

Not fighting has saved my skin far more times than fighting ever has. Eventually, Hylians get bored or get what they want, and leave me alone. Usually. Link isn’t…that simple. Or at least, what he wants isn’t something that can be given up, given over.

I promised Nayru I’d be nice, though, so I’m going to damn well try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to do a double update tonight since I'll be out of country for a bit, but I didn't quite get there. Hopefully tomorrow after this thing I hear some people refer to as 'sleep'.


	8. If You've Seen One Shopping Center, You've Seen a Mall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping can be fun...right?

It takes Kaya until 4:47PM to get frustrated enough that he talks back, and to be honest, I kind of missed it. Kind of. At the very least it’s a break from the obedient silence broken by an occasional innuendo or bought of hyperbolic commentary. Senza has been nothing short of amazing, even though she’s got more homework and studying to do than Kaya and I put together, so despite my relief at his blunt refusal I can’t let the words just slide.

“Sheik, language.” I sigh, and those eyes, red and hard as garnets, turn to glare at me.

“I am not, under any circumstances, no matter how much you _paid_ me, ever, in any way, shape, or form, going to come prancing out of a change room in _that_. You can’t make me.” He states, enunciating each word with a crisp vehemence that has to have been building up since our stop at Lord of Diamond’s for all his personal grooming items.

I’ve made four trips back to Senza’s S.U.V. so far, but only because the suits need to be tailored and won’t be ready until sometime next week at the earliest. The first trip made him turn white, the second green, the third red, and the last a kind of grey that has carried over until now. Now, surrounded by fancy underwear, he’s blushing. And it looks good on him.

“But Kaya, darling…” Senza grins with far too many teeth in the expression. “…they’re meant to be seen. How will you know which set Link likes best if you won’t let him choose?”

“You just want to ogle me, he doesn’t care.” Sheik snorts…Kaya. Damn. Kaya. Even if the scary tiny Sheikah lady wouldn’t tell me how to change the spell work, Pati was willing to talk, and I listened. This is just like when Senza said she wanted us to use female pronouns for her. What I call people is important to their autonomy and in showing respect. I won’t change my behavior if I don’t start changing the way I think, and Kaya is his proper name. I should be addressing him by it.

He’s right though, I don’t care. At least, not about how he looks at this point in time. I’m more concerned about what he’s thinking and how he feels. How he looks is important, and I certainly have no objections to anything aside from his weight, but it’s not what I’m focused on. That’s Senza’s job. She’s good at it, which is why I asked her to come in the first place.

“I’ve been ogling, which is why you should try the teal blue, not the sapphire.” Senza shrugs.

“It’s literally a piece of elastic, see? I don’t need to even try it on.” Kaya says, holding the thong across his hips over his jeans and making me use my imagination.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

“He’s right Senza, I don’t care. They’re all good.” I rasp, clenching my hands around the bag handles with two sets of winter weight and two of summer weight pajamas, a sweater, a housecoat, slippers, and three packaged sets of thermal socks. It’s not a big enough load to need to drop off, but that’s sounding like a better and better idea the more I stand here and think about what he’d look like with just the thong on, hair down, flushed with pleasure. Tetra and Malon and even Ruto have curves, but he’s whipcord and sinew and not much else. I’d prefer a bit of softening, at least to hide his bones.

I managed to get a bowl of soup and half a biscuit into him after his Temple gathering, but he needs to eat more. Or more often. Preferably both. Then everything we bought today will be too small, and we’ll have to do it again, but a day spent shopping isn’t too steep a price to pay if it means I can’t see his ribs through a silk dress shirt.

“But some of them could be _great_.” She insists, and digs through the clearance bin to pull up a pair of…something. I have no idea what to call them. Underwear implies wearing something worn over them, and these are definitely meant to be seen. A jockstrap is thicker, and made of different materials. There’s as much fabric as a thong but nothing in the back. Nothing at all. “Like these!” She crows.

“Fuck no! That’s not even ass-floss!” Kaya wails, turning red again.

“It’ll cover the essentials!” Senza enthuses. “That’s what the pouch is for, the waistband holds it up and these straps go around your thighs, making your butt look bigger.”

“My ass is fine the way it is!” Backing away slowly, I have to wonder if he realizes there’s nowhere to run in the back of the store.

“Oh, I agree. It is _fiiiiine_.” Senza drawls. “This is about _presentation_.”

“How’s this for presentation?” Kaya – trapped between a display rack and drawers I assume are filled with more of the same – snarls as he takes the thong between both hands, stretches it, and fires.

The elastic is good quality, it gives a crisp snap as it leaves his hands but has softened once again by the time it bounces off of Senza’s shoulder to fall back in the bin with a muffled huff. I can’t help it, I laugh. It makes them both glare at me, but I can’t stop. They’re ridiculous. I know that Senza recognizes it, she has from the start and has been deliberately goading Sheik into snapping, but I don’t think she meant for him to snap that literally. 

The teal blue set gets caught on my lapel, which just makes me laugh harder as the floor suddenly shudders and a low boom reverberates, followed by clattering and screaming. I stop laughing immediately, and run towards the front of the store the second the floor is stable again. I’m not the only one, but unlike most of them, I run towards the crashing, booming, roaring dust cloud that’s flooded the main floor and is floating up towards the second.

It’s difficult to get any speed against the fleeing crowd, but that lets Sheik and Senza catch up to me. Kaya’s converter is already crackling, and I make a note to get him a new one after this is all over. Whatever this is. The last stragglers stumble by us as the first people to respond arrive. I hear the chatter of mall security coming from below but can’t see anyone to go with the two voices. One of the stall vendors is helping a woman with a head wound get out while a lady with bright blue hair shuffles two teenagers along.

Across from us on the second story is a woman I should know, but can’t remember her name, next to a large man about the same age from the martial arts academy down in the west wing. I wave, beckoning them over, as Sheik stares into the dust cloud that’s still bellowing and smashing things. I vaguely remember a nail product stall being there before, though from the sound of things it’s been obliterated.

“Hey.” Martial Arts guy greets in a whisper. Senza flaps her hand at him to shush, and I just raise mine in greeting.

“Sweet fucking Farore, that’s a Hinox.” Sheik hisses, taking a step back.

“A what?” Lady-I-should-know hisses right back.

“A Hinox. Big, ugly monster. Like a Moblin but with less brains to make room for a honking huge eyeball. Dumb as toast, but magic doesn’t touch it, just brute strength.” He murmurs in return, eyes nearly all pupil.

“Range?” The guy asks.

“Massive. Not overly fast, but they make every hit count, so unless your life goals include being a sidewalk smear, then don’t get hit.”

“Thanks, tips.” Senza grunts.

“Anytime, babe.” Kaya murmurs, all sarcasm and salt, and further discussion settles like the dust of crushed cement and rebar. There’s not much left of the concession or the ticket booth for the theater entrance that used to be on the first floor, but this early in the day there aren’t a lot of people there, either. As I get my first real glimpse of the thing, with fingers the size of my legs, not getting hit takes on a whole different degree of danger, making ranged weapons appealing.

“Can you distract it?” I ask, thinking how long it will take me to get to Senza’s S.U.V. and back.

“Uh, maybe?” Kaya swallows hard.

“Got a plan?” Martial Arts guy raises an eyebrow.

“Archery kit in the car.” I don’t want to get close enough to use a sword, that’s for sure.

“There’s a Bigoron’s Cutting Edge supply outlet back around the corner, it’ll be closer.” He tells me. The Hinox roars again as it crushes a chocolate stall, then bends to smear its hand in the mess and lick it clean.

“Keep it busy.” I whisper, patting Sheik on the shoulder and hoping that he can. “Don’t die.”

“Hurry.” He tells me, then sticks out his hand to Senza. “Give me your eyeliner.” I take off running, both the woman and the man close on my heels. It seems to take forever to get to the end of the hall, let alone around the corner and past the water pods for the Zora that are shopping to stay hydrated.

“Hey, Tarrey. Hinox in Cinema six, gonna need to borrow some things.” Martial Arts guys says to the vendor behind the counter who’s in the process of locking up. Most of the other cashiers and attendants have already bolted, but if I was sitting on a fortune of weaponry and armor, I’d feel a little safer taking my time, too.

“You’re joking.” Tarrey says, sounding more like he doesn’t want to believe it than actually not believing it.

“No joke, slow poke.” The woman says. “Got any maces or flails?”

“Spears and halberds for me.”

“Compound bow, vaned carbon arrows if you have them.” I see a recurve on the wall, but not only is it a movie replica display piece, Kaya said that brute strength is needed and I get better results with a compound bow for that. I can adjust the pull weight as needed, but if I have the option, something around 40-50 pounds would be best. Any less, and I risk losing force. Any more, and I limit the number of times I can pull.

“You’re serious. A Hinox?” He squeaks.

“I can pay for whatever we use, but we need to go, now.” I tell him. He nods, starts pulling out sticks with pointy things on the end, and the Hinox squeals with rage loud enough that even he hears it. It makes him just open the gate and let me into the supply room while the woman takes a few practice swings with her pointy-ended stick of choice.

It doesn’t take me long to find a Fortitude 360 compound bow and set it to a forty-five pound pull, or the boxes of Thunder Express carbon arrows with vanes. Not long is too long, with Senza and Sheik waiting for us. Not waiting for the other two, I run. The Hinox squeals again, then roars. Something breaks….something like a wall, maybe the floor.

Whatever Sheik and Senza have been doing, it’s kept the monster busy and in relatively the same place.  Even if I took the time to do more than glance at it, whatever runes Sheik has scrawled on both the floor and the plexi-glass railing are doing their job. I drop the box of arrows, grab three, and draw. Fire. Duck as it bellows. Rush further down, and fire again.

Having only one eye, the thing’s depth perception is awful, and the flickers of illusion I can see turn into what looks like Senza taunting it as I get behind it. The broadheads on my arrows just bounce off the thick, leathery hide, and so I keep going. If it only has one eye, then I only have one target.

I miss, hitting its snout instead, but that pisses it off enough to look up to the second story balcony. As blind as it is, there’s just me up here, so it only has one target as well. Or did. The images of Senza waving, dancing, sneering, and otherwise provoking the monster pop up in rapid succession on either side of me, confusing it by giving it more targets than it knows what to do with. I see myself running, and know that for every illusion I can perceive, there are more that I can’t.

It caves in the front of Kotake’s Pharmaceuticals, shattering the glass and shelves alike with equal ease and passing right through Senza’s flailing figure. My last arrow hits it in the white of the eye right next to its tear ducts, and it crashes to the ground, taking out the last of the balcony there on its way down. His way down.

Gross.

Martial-Arts-guy and Woman-I-should-know are waiting on the ground floor though, and before the dust from the Hinox’s fall has settled they’re pounding away. I’m grateful that monsters like this don’t bleed, because otherwise they’d be soaked in seconds, and both of them really know what they’re doing. The amount of damage they wreck on it is impressive, but not enough to take it out.

The Hinox clambers to its feet and starts swinging, and they have to retreat or be mashed, Sheik’s illusions covering their backs. I rush around again, crossing by the escalators that are no longer running and sliding to keep myself out of sight as it spins, looking for another target.

“Took you long enough.” Sheik gasps, fingers on the black circles of runes he has scrawled in eye liner, pouring magic into them as fast as sweat pours down his face, converter sparking, the scent of burning ozone in the air.

“Out of arrows.” I explain, and grab another set, shoving six through my belt. Then it’s back to doing my best to blind the monster while keeping it away from both myself and my friends. I get better as I get a feel for the bow, and after hitting the lid once, every arrow after finds its mark. The two on the ground beat away with their weapons, darting in and out between its feet, making it obvious that they fight together regularly in how they don’t get in each other’s way.

From the second story, while it’s on its back and flailing and reminding me that it’s a he with he-bits flopping all over, I can see the flashing bombchu approach.

“Clear!” Tarrey shouts as it snags on the Hinox’s loincloth, and the two fighters on the ground back up as fast as they can before it detonates.

The blue Hinox turns black, then crumbles into ash, leaving bits of what it was wearing, other bits, and a charred core on the pulverized tile. My knees turn to water around the same time, and I have enough brains left to be glad that my bladder doesn’t do the same as I sink to the floor and pant.  It’s over.

We’re alive.

I don’t think I want to move, ever again, but someone needs to. Senza’s kneeling next to Sheik, who has slumped against the railing, smearing his runes beyond saving by the time I can stand and stumble over to them. Even though the escalators are dead, they’re still perfectly good stairs, and the two people who just risked their lives in close combat with a Hinox – a Hinox! – use them to join Sheik, Senza, Tarrey and I once more.

“I need a drink.” Martial Arts guy mutters, sitting down cross-legged with his spear thing across his knees, sounding as exhausted as he looks.

“I need a massage.” The lady moans.

“Oh, Goddess yes.” Senza agrees, as rattled as anyone else. I have no idea what Sheik needed her to do to project her image like that, but she’s sweaty and disheveled and was doing it for longer than the rest of us were fighting.

“I think…I’m going…to sleep…for a week.” Sheik groans, flopping over and holding his arm like it hurts. His converter’s burned a hole through both his new shirt and my old hoodie, and his head wrap is soaked through.

“Hey, you’re that spook from the Savingway.” The lady says.

“Sheikah.” I correct, and she looks at me.

“Lord Korokshire.” She dips her head. “I apologize. I meant no disrespect.”

“Tell him that.” I grumble.

“I’m sorry.” She mutters to him, not bowing at all. “You probably don’t know who I am, but…”

“Oh I know who you are, you arrogant little bint. Kindly fuck right off, okay?” He snarls.

“Why I never!” She huffs.

“Sheik!” I yelp, and he glances at me before sitting up.

“Lady Cia Noires, Sir Aaron Volga. Self-important but clueless cunt, arm-candy with the abs and I.Q. of a marble statue. I miss anyone?” Kaya taunts, gaining strength with every breath.

“Tarrey Towne, owner and operator of Bigoron’s Cutting Edge Weaponry Outlet.” Tarrey waves.

“The fabulous Lady Kelly Senza, Duchess of Whittleton.” Senza chirps, holding out her hand. Tarrey takes it and kisses the back, and Senza giggles.

“Perfect. We all know each other. Can you fuck off _now_?” Whatever strength Kaya summoned to anger Lady Cia, it’s nearly gone, and he’s turning grey again.

“Nobody move!” The megaphone nearly blows my eardrums, and the squeal before it disconnects makes sure that my ears are still ringing as what looks like the entirely of the tactical auxiliary royal guard elite team arrives. Certainly more than enough people to detain six civilians. They have enough training that they don’t immediately go after Sheik, clearly the only mage of us all, but they do study and take as many photos of his runes as they do of the rest of the destruction.

The next hour is spent answering questions, both ones I have answers for and ones I have no idea about. Security footage is pulled. Yellow tape strung up like garlands. Tarrey is escorted with our weapons back to his shop, and doesn’t come back. Not that this end of the mall will be open for business again today. Cia Noires and Aaron Volga are dismissed with Senza and I, and Senza offers to pick up something to eat for us.

Now that my adrenaline’s gone, food sounds amazing, but Kaya’s still being questioned and I’m not leaving without him, so I agree, and hand over my credit card.  Senza waves it off and promises to be back soon. I wait.

The questions the T.A.R.G.E.T. officer is asking Sheik are all highly technical, and she looks impressed with his answers. In turn, he grows more animated as his voice warms with his answers and explanations. His converter is taken, but is replaced with bandages and red potion for the burns on his chest by another T.A.R.G.E.T. officer who has E.M.T. training. Even if it was still useable, I’m pretty sure he’d never see it again, which means I need to get him a replacement as soon as possible.

Or not.

“Oh!” Sheik murmurs. I can’t hold back my grin at the surprised and pleased tone of his voice when a third T.A.R.G.E.T. officer arrives with a black box holding an unused converter just like the ones the entire team is wearing. Standard issue it might be, but it’s an upgrade that even my kind of money can’t buy. No money can buy. They’re not for public sale, and for good reason. The standard overload mechanism is gone, and there are pages of forms he has to sign before they’ll even let him touch it…but he signs them, and they do.

His pleasure is palpable, and for a moment I have to fight with myself to not be jealous of the gratitude he’s showing them for it. It’s a far cry from the embarrassed protests he’s shown Senza and I all day, and takes me longer than I’d like to admit to figure out why.

Privilege. The converter is something he thinks he’s earned, that he’s worthy of. The clothing, toiletries, grooming items, and things I’ve bought him are things that he needs, but doesn’t feel he deserves. I think. I could be wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve misjudged him.

Either way, it’s nice to hear him laughing, even if it’s softly and I’m not the reason why. I’m the one he sits next to for an impromptu picnic on the floor of a deserted mall. I’m the one who gets to rest a hand on his thigh as Senza drives us back to my car. I’m the one that gets to take him home when it’s all over.

He falls asleep in the tub, dozes off as I card my fingers through his hair, snores softly when I turn off my alarm in the morning. I would have rather slept in, but I forgot to turn it off last night. Lying there next to him as the sun slowly floods my room brings a distinct, hedonistic satisfaction to my gut, insistent wanting below my belt, and a guilty, shame-filled ache to my heart.

I didn’t think of Tetra at all yesterday. Not shopping, not fighting, not afterwards. There was plenty of time to talk to her while Sheik was talking to the T.A.R.G.E.T. officers, and I didn’t even think to call. We could have died. Some fiancé I am.

No time like the present to fix that, though. I text first to make sure she’s awake and can take a call, then swipe right so I don’t have to pull away from Sheik’s grip, loose as it is. He smells so good, and looks much better than he did last night.

“Hey you. You okay?” She greets, voice soft and sleepy.

“Rattled, but fine.” I admit. “Sorry I didn’t call last night, it completely slipped my mind.”

“Senza filled me in before she went to sleep.” She yawns. “And you called as soon as you remembered. It's…not fine, but that’s because I’d rather you didn’t go out and fight monsters, not because you did.”

“Believe me, I’d rather not myself.” I grimace. “It was awful, but gave me a rush, too.”

“Adrenaline junkie.” She teases.

“Nearly gave me the runs, after.” I confess.

“As long as it was nearly. There was enough news coverage that I knew you were okay.” Tetra murmurs, then turns from the phone to talk to her maid with instructions on what she wants to wear today. She rolls over, and I know she’s still in bed from the crinkle of her sheets and Malon’s soft hum. “Most of them were still at Snowpeak when the call came in for the Marketplace.”

“What happened at Snowpeak?” I whisper.

“Freezard on the slopes.” She whispers back. “Two dead, six injured.”

No one died at the mall, though there were seventeen injured from falling debris and in the stampede to get out. Technically, Sheik counts as one of them, with his burned skin. I should have been faster.

“Damn.” No wonder it took so long for the T.A.R.G.E.T. team to show up.

“As much as I hate the fact that you were in danger, you handled yourselves well.  All of you.” Tetra praises.

“Hear, hear.” Malon agrees in the background, and I smile. Even if I fell through as a fiancé, Malon was there for Tetra, and that’s a good thing. The two of them together makes me ridiculously happy, because together, they’re ridiculously happy. Their smiles are contagious.

“My father’s Sheik even nodded his approval, and Claree seems to have admitted that your Kaya isn’t a complete failure.” Tetra says, teasing.

“He’s not _mine_.” I grouse, annoyed and embarrassed.

“You could change that right now.” He grumbles, tugging at my arm and curling into the crook of my elbow. Tetra cackles. Explains. Malon cackles, and steals Tetra’s phone.

“Go get him, fairy-boy. Send pictures.” She says, and hangs up.  I debate calling back, but knowing Malon, she’d just fling the phone across the room and convince Tetra to ignore it.

“Who you talking to at this unholy hour?” Sheik mutters.

“It’s almost eight.” I say, grinning and wrapping my arm more firmly around him. “That’s only sacrilegious, not unholy.”

“It’s Sunsday. Sunsday is for sleeping in.” He complains, pulling back to wince and rub at his chest through the bandages. The burns themselves are gone, but the skin is still tight and shiny and new. It must itch.

“It’s Reading Week.” I argue for the sake of arguing. “Reading Week is for sleeping in. And staying up late.”

“Oh, chunky corn crap on a cracker, why’d you have to remind me?” He moans, flinging an arm over his eyes. “I have two twenty-page essays to write.  That I haven’t started. Fuck.”

“Have time for the Grand Master to visit?” I ask, having learned my lesson last time about making appointments and not telling anyone about them.

“You gonna fuck me?” He returns, uncovering his face to watch my reaction, red eyes wary but glittering. It’s strange, how I can almost call them beautiful, even if they’re also disturbing.

“I’m conflicted about that.” I admit, reaching over to cup his bruised cheek as gently as I can. Senza got him make-up to cover it up, but it washed off in his bath last night and he hasn’t reapplied it.  The middle is mostly green and yellow now, only a few black spots left, and I should have asked the T.A.R.G.E.T. medic to spare some red potion for that, too.

"Why? Never stuck your dick up a poop-chute before? It’s not that hard. Well, it’s hard enough.” He gripes, glancing at my crotch before rolling towards me so I don’t have to move my hand and tucking his knees under his chest. “Climb on, I’ll show you.”

“Kaya, please.” I beg, pained. Does he have to be so…accurate? Why not use a euphemism for this act like he does so many others?

“Lube’s in the nightstand, next to the condoms, top drawer.” He wiggles, leg pressing against my side in a not subtle push towards the edge of the bed – and the supplies - and turning as he does.

"Why are you doing this?” I whine, even as my mouth goes dry and certain parts of my anatomy seem to think he’s got the right idea.

“Why aren’t you doing this?” He replies, reaching back to push down his pants and part his buttocks, showing me his...anatomy. “I want you to cram your cock in my ass and ride me until you nut. I don’t know how to make it any more fucking obvious.”

“I don’t want to force…” I start. Swallow. Rephrase. “While I appreciate the offer…”

“You ain’t violet? Don’t like spooks? Fuck. Is it me? It’s me, isn’t it? It has to be.” He groans into the bedding. “Fucking Fierce Deity must _hate_ me.”

“No! That’s…that’s not it.” Goddess, that’s so not it. I’m so hard it hurts.

“Then _what_?!”

“I won’t make you a slave.” I rasp, and stoop across the gap between us to kiss him. He squeaks in surprise. Whimpers as his eyes drift closed.  I press, pushing him over, and he stretches out flat, giving me space to climb on top of him and eat at his mouth. We shared burgers and salad and a cheap shiraz last night, and it lingers on both of our breaths. He tries to speak around my tongue, and I swallow his words. He’s made himself abundantly clear. I haven’t. I kiss him until he quiets beneath me, hands wrapped around my back, legs tangled with mine, hair a disaster over the bed.

“Link.” He gasps as I pull away, grind my morning arousal against his thigh.

“I want you. Goddess do I want you. But I can’t have you if it means making you into something I find abhorrent. If I take your free will along with your virginity.” I gasp out, and he stops breathing.

Then coughs. Chokes. Laughs. Laughs so hard he cries. Starts hiccupping around the laughter. Grabs at my shoulder when I pull away. Rolls us both, straddling me. Leans over, pinning my shoulders to the mattress.

“I haven’t been a virgin for nearly a decade, hero.” He smirks. “I know what I like, and I want you to give it to me.” He growls, rocking on my lap and making me moan.

“But Grand Master Impa said…” I gasp as he sits up, catching my penis at the juncture of his thighs against his perineum. “…the _jus primae noctis_ …” He grinds down. I groan.

“Was mostly broken before you ever showed up. Had been intended for Prince Eran, was frayed by the man who first showed me how to pay rent without a job, and shattered completely when you rejected me that first night.” He tells me, undulating in a manner that has to be illegal. “Haven’t had a chance to renew the bindings. Haven’t even gotten rid of the mangled old ones. Impa will, and once she does and I accept the new ones in its place, then every time you interact with me, I will become more and more yours to command.  But until then…” He reaches over and fumbles in my nightstand, pulling out the chocolate-cherry flavored lube I purchased.

“Until then?” I moan.

“Until then, it’s just fucking.” He tells me, bending to breathe in my ear. “So _fuck me_ already.”

Relieved of the trepidation, no more reason to hesitate, I grab his hips and roll us both again. Drag him to the edge of the mattress. Yank his pajama bottoms off entirely. Move between his legs, just like in the hospital room before Niko interrupted us.

“Like this?” I ask, squirting cold lubricant onto my fingers. I remember that much. Spit is _not_ enough, no matter how eager we both are.

“Yesss.” He hisses, followed quickly by a shout as I slide my fingers where they need to go. He wants this.  He wants me. I want this.  I want him. Even if I can’t pinpoint why, I do. Badly. I fumble with my waistband, boxers dropping around my ankles. Cover myself with more lube, wipe my fingers on the sheets. Line up. Push in.

His nails claw at my back as I join our bodies together for the first time, and it’s tight. So tight. Tighter than Tetra, than Malon, than my own hand, even. Almost painful, but so good. So, so good. Then he does something, relaxes, shifts, bends, I don’t know, but it lets me _move_.

“Goddesses, yes! Fuuuuuuck.” He whines as I rut into him, lifting his legs up to give me better access. I hold his hips in place, boosting him up so it’s easier for me to move with him, in him, as deeply as I can. Warm. Slick. Good.

“Sheik, Sheik, Sheik, Sheik…” I grunt, unable to focus enough to kiss him, biting at his throat instead. Fingers digging into skin, pushing his legs apart with my hips.  Bending over him, tilting them up.  Driving in, driving in _hard_.

“Fill me up, fill me up, oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh…oh, oh Din!” He mewls as my legs lock in place and I grind against his tailbone, the muscle clenching down, milking me. Sucking me in as I spasm and pump out everything I’ve been saving since he sucked me off in my car. Filling him up, just like he asked me to.

“Good…good…ngh…Goddess.” I choke out, unable to keep from thrusting even though I just came faster than I ever have before. I can be embarrassed later, but now I can’t even keep myself standing, falling forward onto him as the aftershocks make me tremble. His legs wrap around my waist, arms around my back, nails biting into my skin, keeping me there. On top of him. Inside of him. Thrusting through my cum as it drips down to stain my sheets.

“Good shit.” He gasps, high pitched and tight. So tight. Goddess. He feels so good. “Ah…ah.  Ah.  What…oh, fuck…what’s your…ngh…refractory period?” He moans, writhing underneath me, pleasing himself since I couldn’t last long enough to please him myself.

“My what?” I groan, temporarily lassitude keeping me from taking over.

“How long until you can…ah…go again?” He asks, deliberately clenching down around me. It has to be deliberate. Goddess.

“Not long if you keep that up.” I pant.

“Good.” He grins, then wiggles out from beneath me to roll onto his knees again, showing me the reddened hole between his legs, the thick, white fluid inside of it, the firmness of his erection. Spanks himself. “Now, show me what you can do.” He demands.

Climbing back onto my bed, kneeling behind him, I listen, and take his advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made it \o/  
> Now to abandon internet access for two weeks. T^T


	9. In The Raw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot of action this chapter, but some seriously plot-related shenanigans in Sheik's pretty little messed up head.

Practice makes absolutely fucking perfect, but thank Farore I didn’t eat breakfast today. I’ll have a lifetime to get used to stuffing my gullet with carbs and protein shortly after waking up, so there’s no reason to have to do it today. Or tomorrow. Being stuffed with Link’s baby batter is making this miserable shit show enough of a torment as it is. Sandpaper on the soul, rubbing me raw to rid me of every trace of essence that’s not my own. Reducing me to my component parts.

The Trials of Nayru’s Silent Realm are a comparative cake walk. Two twenty page papers seem like pure hedonistic bliss.

“Breathe.” Grand Master Impa, steady and strong and nothing but cold steel and determination, demands of me. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped. Obey. Always obey. It’ll hurt longer, but averages less at any given moment. I just have to endure.

Besides, she is worthy of my obedience. Even after more than a decade out of the Training Hall, if the Grand Master commands it, I will obey. Practice, for when the bonds she is renewing are tethered to Link. Digging those hooks deeper than instinct, faster than she ever has before. Against her better judgement, even if we both know it’s the most expedient option.

I asked her to, and through the flashes of electric blood red, searing white hot, and blackest agony, I don’t regret it. I don’t have the ability to. Not anymore. I can only endure. It’s worth it. He’s worth it. I can only hope that I am, too.

The sound that gurgles out of my throat would drive any Hylian to tears if they heard it. The Grand Master doesn’t even twitch. I’m too parched to cry, or puke, and far passed the point where it’d be possible, anyway.

Nayru knows me. Din’s felt my determination. Only Farore left to go. Each Goddess of the Holy Trinity was given _years_ of devotion in the Training Hall, and the others woven in beside. I loved Nayru best, even then, thirsting for Her wisdom as much as knowledge and understanding. Enjoying the logic and the structure of magic. Din’s gifts simply allowed me to do _more._ Farore let me try. Together, They helped me to become one of the top candidates qualifying as Eran’s Sheik.

I hadn’t been broken, then. Didn’t need to be put back together for repurposing. Hadn’t lost more than I even realized I had to lose.

We’ve been at it for nine hours. Hylia, the first three, just to cleanse me of the overtones of others and clarify my purpose in life. The next three to Nayru, to ensure the Wisdom of my path. The last three to Din, to give me the Power to match all of the consequences of my actions and the results of my choices. Now that I’m breathing again on my own, Farore. Courage to meet the challenges I’ll face in performing my sworn duties.

Three hours for Her glory. For him. For me.

Starting now.

Each tattered strand of the _esclavin_ bindings recoils like a lash, bending to my will and Impa’s direction, a compass rose of petals blooming alongside the blood. Blinding, thunderous pain, hot and cold and itchy, stinging, burning, frozen, sharp and aching. Lightheaded, I can’t tell exactly when I go from whimpering in the frozen dirt outside Korokshire manor to lying prone in the transference circle in Farore’s Silent Realm, but it doesn’t seem to take much time at all.

The vessel of my spirit stands full and glowing, but, like the vessel of my spirit in the Mortal Realm, the bud of the flower is closed tight, ready to bloom, but unable to. Dormant, but not dead like I’d feared it would be when I first stepped under Hylia’s gaze. Awaiting transplant instead of the compost pile. Physical pain echoes like harp strings strummed in harmony, keeping me aware of my body’s needs even as I leave it behind and step out of the circle and into Farore’s Trials for the second time in my life.

The first time, I was twelve. Eran had just left for the skiing trip that would take his life and my purpose. This time, Link is safe with Princess Tetra and her entourage in Korokshire Manor’s halls, and I’m just trying to not be useless. Neither of them going anywhere after the press conference. Both of them catching up on readings and assignments as Impa carefully carves the flesh from my bones, flaying me alive as Claree watches. Succeed, and join them. Join him. Fail, and die. Prove Claree right. Too bad that I’m a damn disappointment to her, determined to succeed against all odds. No matter what, just to piss the nay-sayers off.

Fuck them all. I head towards the shifting fields of grass and the first step in seeking the blessings of Courage.

Hours later, reborn in the frozen loam of the fairy clearing amidst the stirring sap of spring, it’s all I can do to breathe. The trees themselves shift to give me shelter as Impa kneels and offers her hand. Dirty, covered in my blood, it trembles as I take it, the only outward sign of how exhausted she is. I need help to stand, and she’s put in as much effort as I have, if not more. That’s why she’s the Grand Master, and I’m just an un-bonded, unconfirmed Sheik.

Completely whole once more, in a way I haven’t been for longer than I can remember.

The spidery sensation of the last of my lashed skin knitting back together is only the first thing on the list of why arachnids skeeve me right the fuck out. Having to walk through their webs to get back to the manor house with the sticky filaments catching my skin and my hair is another. Combing one of the tiny fuckers _out_ of my hair after my bath is a third. Nothing should have that many legs or that many eyes. Nothing. Ever.

Gah.

Just like at the mall – after the whole Hinox peep show - I’m spent. Done. Finished. I barely remember to cover my side of the bed with a towel so I don’t soak the mattress with my hair before I fall in. I haven’t the first clue when Link joins me, just wake up to his hand between my legs as he snores fit to fell a forest early the next morning. He can polish his own sword for once. I’m still sore from having him pound me like mochi yesterday, and the next time I do, well…

…I’ll be _his_ Sheik, not _a_ Sheik. Best to let the fallout from announcing his engagement to Princess Tetra run its course first. It’ll give me time to write my papers. Two pages an hour is for illiterate turd-wranglers to choke out of their pipes...or those whose education focusses on formula and regurgitation, if I’m being kind. Not that I don’t have to vomit up sources and credit theories and specify quotations, but even in Scripturgy I do best when I’m allowed some creative expression.

Experience becomes knowledge becomes truism becomes wisdom. I’ve got a perspective on the first not commonly found in the halls of higher education, and bow my head to the last on the daily, even if I still don’t have access to a proper altar or offerings. For somewhere as retrograded as Korokshire, there’s got to be a chapel somewhere on the premises, unless it’s been converted like the coach house. I know just who to ask, too.

: _Sheikah_.: She greets me with a bob, too small to be a curtsey but definitely leaning in that direction.

“Lady Mavis.” I bow, fully, in the old style, for her. “May this humble servant inquire as to where your chapel lays?”

: _Of course. Follow me, an it pleases you._ : This bob is a curtsey, and as it pleases me very much. I follow her, exchanging gossip, until she walks straight through a wall that must have been built after she died. It doesn’t slow her down at all, but it stops me as dead as she is.

“Your pardon, Lady, but…”

“Who are you talking to?” The childish treble shuts me up fast enough that I bite my tongue, and keep biting it to avoid saying what biting it in the first place makes me want to say. He can’t be more than eight or nine, and doesn’t need that kind of an education at this point of his life. “Mister Sheik? Who are you talking to?”

“Just Sheik, boy.” I snort, but crouch down so we can talk on the level. He and the out-clan girl were playing together that first night, and she’s smart enough to know her way around, so he might, too. “I was trying to find the chapel here. Do you know where it is?”

Kids, even Hylian kids raised in what I consider a glut of luxury, aren’t actually stupid. Stupidity is imposed, not inherent. Intelligence dies alongside curiosity.

“Uh-huh! This way!” He nods, and I can’t help smiling as he scampers off down the T juncture of the hall and turns. Definitely not stupid, but very easily distracted. Focus, like most things, comes with practice. He’ll learn. Eventually. Maybe.

Even with the detour, the chapel isn’t far, but it’s filled with off season decorations, old furniture, stacked paintings, cardboard boxes at least as old as I am, and a thick layer of dust. The sanctuary is still sanctified, but hasn’t been used in years, even for storage. Everything inside has been here for the better part of a decade, and most of it longer than that.

Lady Mavis stands where an altar to Farore would have been, half in, half out of a box labelled ‘photo albums’ ranging from thirty to fifty years old. There’s another ghost at her side that could be Link, if he was into looking like a poof complete with lacey cravat and brocaded waistcoat. The ghost’s hair is a bit less than a third as long as mine, bound up in a simple cue.  Like Lady Mavis - like most of the ghosts here - he’s in no danger of becoming a Poe, and can see me as clearly as I see him.

: _Oh! You changed your maquillage, Sheik! It is quite fetching. Is His Majesty ready to see me?_ : He asks, turning, and giving me another clue into figuring out who he was and how to let him move on. Half his face is…gone. Charcoaled. Now that I know what I’m seeing, even though it’s been scrubbed probably a hundred times since, the darkened patches of stone, imperfections in the walls…fire. A bad one, with at least one death. Traumatic enough, or sudden enough, that the ghost that resulted from it doesn’t have the slightest.

I’d like to keep it that way, and the boy is staring at me. I turn to the living child first, kneeling once more to put my hand on his shoulder, and thank him for guiding me here.

“It’s smelly.” He complains, wrinkling his nose.

“You don’t have to stay. I can find my way back, I promise.” I nod at him.

“Okay. Want me to tell Mistress Telma where you are?”

“That would be good, yes. Thank you.” I agree, and he goes, leaving me with a handful of the more coherent specters that inhabit the manor. The boy first.

“His Majesty bids you take your time. It is important to honor those that gave us these lives.” I say to him, and he nods, so serious for one so young. Or old. Both, really.

: _Father says Hylia smiled the day I was born, that She’s been watching over us since the Great Calamity was banished._ :

“It is a privilege to listen to the voice of experience.” I agree, and start shifting through the mess to find my way to the foot of Nayru’s station. Neither of the ghosts interfere, nor do the ones that come and go while I say my mantras and offer my devotions, though one echoes me as closely as the linguistic shift of centuries allows. Their murmurings follow me through my meditations. Clean the chapel, She tells me, setting no limits but brooking no arguments, either. Not that I have any. I will, when my life is a little more stable and I know where I can get a mop.

I need another bath just being in here, let alone having moved some of the boxes.

I’m neck deep in hot water of my own accord when my imminent _domine_ finally wakes up, scrubbed fresh and soaking in a tub bearing no more than Epsom salts to soothe my muscles. Even though I’ve been healed of the damage the Trials inflict by completing the Trials themselves, the muscle strain lingers. He takes a leak half awake, and has one foot in the tub before he realizes it’s occupied.

“Sorry.” He slurs, and stumbles to the sink to wash instead, wandering out to the bedroom and ringing the kitchen for breakfast, even though it’s nearly noon. I sigh, and climb out of the tub to tend to my hair and dress for the day. Again. In clean clothes. That haven’t been worn by anyone else before me, and have been laundered by someone else…in the damn cotton stink again.

The fuck, Kaya? What are you doing here, wasting time?

I should - and the strings of the bindings of an _esclavin_ Sheik are already reaching for it – be readying myself for him. Not grooming myself. Not mentally organizing my points on Holodrian warding. Not thinking about the comparative merits between a _cananaeum_ and a _coheleste_ lettering style in Chaldaceum summoning for the Scripturgy 418 essay I intend to write after lunch. Not thinking about lunch, even.

The flash of red in the mirror startles me into going completely screensaver.

When my brain starts processing beyond the base functions needed to remain bipedal, sitting down before I fall down reaches utmost importance. Then reaching up to touch, because Sheikah gifts be damned if I can believe that shit without some other sort of proof it exists. Something outside of my eyes, because they _can’t_ be working right. It’s not possible.

Poke at my skin. The mirror. My eye. Shit that stings.

Fuck, breathe.

Breathe.

Just breathe. Don’t pass out like that pansy-assed fan-girl at the last Indigo-go concert. Most accidents occur in the home. Don’t be a statistic.

I’ll never be able to hide what I am with _this_.

Grand Master Impa has the Eye inked in blue directly over her brow, the tear dripping down her nose, lashes reaching her hairline. At least, I thought it was inked. Everyone said it was a tattoo. The proverbial ‘everyone’ is usually sharing a collective brain cell. Specify. Direct observation. Ink is an assumption. Fucking damn.

Mine covers my right eye entirely, lashes in line with my brow, tear dropping to mid-cheek, no evidence of the bruise that decorated it previously, not even when I press, and press hard. Three hairs I missed shaving on my throat. Pointy-ass clavicles sticking out like a felled tree at the base of my neck. The petals guarding the Gates of the Silent Realms string across my shoulders like a shawl, while the stylized loftwing of the Royal family’s crest sits interwoven across my sternum. All in a lurid red the exact shade of the second layer of my irises.

At least it isn’t a fucking tramp-stamp. I may actually have had to kill myself if that were the case, no matter how accurate the symbolism would be.

Good fuck but I don’t want to know if Impa has the same, saggy tits and all. They’re not bad enough to make the loftwing fly when she runs, but now I need to figure out how to bleach that image out of my brain. Maybe a toothbrush lobotomy would do it, but I’m not willing to count on it.

A quick check beneath my towel ensures that only my upper body’s been marked, even though there’s a Triforce I hadn’t noticed at the base of my skull. My braid will cover that one, my clothing will take care of all but the brilliant red Eye taking up half my fucking face. I thought I couldn’t get any fucking spookier, but the Fierce Deity always finds a way.

None of the other Sheiks have ever been marked by the Goddesses like this. Only the Grand Master and the Sage, and that’s impossible. Veran is the Sage of Shadow, and is only a decade older than I am. Impa is the Grand Master. Has been since her thirty-third birthday. She’s only fifty-seven, so there’ll be nine more years before another Grand Master is chosen.

In nine years, I’ll be thirty-three. I just turned twenty-four last month.

Impa was so pleased that I was alive.

This…is this why? Has she _known_? I can’t be Link’s Sheik and the Grand Master, the two duties directly conflict with each other. Guide and guard a single person with your life, preserve the skills of the Sheikah people as a whole. Can’t do ‘em both. Can’t _be_ both. It’s never happened before. It's impossible. Six impossible things before breakfast. Thanks Lewis Carroll. When did I go through the looking glass?

“Sheik! Breakfast’s here!” Link calls from the bedroom.

Breathe, Kaya. It’s not the end of the world. Not yet. There’s no Calamity happening while you drip dry standing starkers in a lordling’s private bathing room. No – thank _fucking_ Farore – signs of an emerging Hero. Holy Hylia, there are even two Princesses of Your line set to inherit the Throne. The King is young and smart and strong. The Queen is as healthy as can be expected. Princess Hilda has a Sheik of her own. Princess Tetra has Claree. They’re fine. You’re fine. Except you’re not.

Fucking shit on a stick, breaded and deep fried.

“Sheik? Breakfast!” Lord Lincoln calls again, and if there’s anything I’ve learned in addition to the fact he’s a fantastic at gland-to-gland combat, it’s that if I don’t eat with him I’ll have to endure the hairy eyeball and the bitchiest passive-aggressive whining this side of sass-city until I do. At least Hawa’s out-right aggressive. The ‘just one more’ from him is only acceptable if it results in a serving of throat yogurt. Right now, so not worth it.

He can get me to come – and how – but he can’t get me groomed and dressed before his waffle’s chilled, especially when I washed my hair twice in less than eight hours.

Unlike Hawa, I don’t deliberately try to be a dick to people in some sort of twisted compensatory way for not having one. I’ve got one – only Nayru knows why – so I don’t need to be one. There’s no reason to make Ulli have to work harder than she already does, or give nightmares to the memory-foam cushions. With a towel around my hips and another around my hair, I won’t drip on the hardwood and ruin the finish as I join Link at the tea table. Fucker has a table just to take tea at. What am I even doing?

Eating breakfast, duh. A better breakfast than literally hundreds - at _least_ \- right over the hills in Castletown could even imagine, delivered on request. Link’s got his waffle and sausage, I’ve got oatmeal and fruit, with a hard-boiled egg today instead of poached or scrambled. Last time I held an egg in the shell was in the Savingway, right before I hurled it at the portent of Demise’s Oath and got myself into this entire glorious shit-show, complete with glitter.

That sparkling harbinger of doom _never_ goes away. Eran’s example taught me that food like this does, along with the rest of the creature comforts a title, old money, and power can access. I peel the damn egg. Eat the cereal, breaking the bits of strawberry up into it for a sweetener to go with the rich cream and bitter coffee. Sip at the black brew as Link doctors his tea with enough cream to gag a goat.

He’s peculiar. He’ll watch news on nearly every damn station and read three different papers in the morning before anything else.  Most of which are carrying the announcement of Princess Tetra’s engagement like it’s a banner of good news before a horde of Bokoblins. Given what happened at the mall and apparently Snowpeak Resort, Bokoblins aren’t too far off. Of course, once I show up and start eating without prompting, he doesn’t so much as acknowledge my presence.

Good. I’m his Sheik, not his date, or at least I will be. Definitely not his fiancé. The sooner he starts treating me like the rest of his well-built furniture, the better. I’m supposed to be his support, not the other way around.

“Did it hurt?” He asks, not looking up from the Lifestyle section of the Hyrule Star.

“If you say ‘when you fell from Skyloft’ I will pull out your toenails one at a time and feed them to you.” I say, cheery as a rabid badger, because that kind of pick-up line is almost as bad as his Yeti opener.

“Uh…no?” He blinks, looking at me for the first time today, as confused as a baby with an avocado. “The tattoos. Or branding. Whatever it is.”

“Not like you’d think.” I tell him, already knowing he’s not going to drop it until he’s satisfied, so at least twice as much as I expect is possible. Goddess my ass still aches. Not that I’d say no oscillating the unmentionables again, but better not to get into that habit in the mornings. He’s got Kaepora even days and needs to pass if he and Princess Tetra intend on tying the knot when the papers all say they will.

“Does it still hurt?” The paper gets folded and that’s exactly what I didn’t want.

“No. Not at all. How’re your readings coming?” Distraction, deflection, whatever. It works. He sits back with a groan.

“Hylia, help me. It didn’t look so bad last week.”

Funny, I could say the same thing about my face.

“How long will you need, do you think?” Maybe I actually have time to let off a little steam before sitting down to my own book work.

“I could take all week.” He grumbles. “But no more than a few hours for today, at least. Unless you and Grand Master Impa need more time?”

With the way the magic stemming in my core is fluttering around him, reaching, trying to envelope him whole, I’m confident that what he’s referring to is complete. Ready and waiting. I didn’t want Eran like I want him, but then, I hadn’t ridden the bologna pony when I was twelve. Still, I wanted him badly enough that I followed him everywhere, would do anything for his touch, his approval, his regard. Staying back for the Trial with Impa had been awful. I thought it was a punishment. Then he died.

I don’t want that to happen with Link. The shattering of both unmade and unfulfilled vows nearly broke me completely the first time, the aftershocks still sending me into lightheaded dizzy spells and moments where I don’t remember anything that happens. Or at least, it did. I clearly remember everything that happened after I left the circle last night. I can’t handle that happening again.

“No. We don’t.” Assurance comes easily to my lips. _I_ want to talk to her – ask her what the actual fuck – but the _esclavin_ yearning is loud and proud and ready to serve. At least, I assume it is. What else could draw me that quickly and thoroughly to a man I met less than a week ago aside from Divine intent?

“Well, that’s…good, then.” He blushes like a virgin that I know he’s not, embarrassed for some reason beyond my ability to fathom. “I guess. I still don’t like it, but…I understand.”

Oh.

He’s still on that, then. Well, fuck…but I promised, and I’m still feeling a little guilty about the whole toenails thing. He didn’t deserve it. I can keep my sigh purely internal, but he’s as Hylian as…as Princess Tetra, and they need to hear things. That’s why those of the purest of Hylia’s descendants were given a Sheik. To See and to Speak, because comparatively Hylians are fucking blind. So I sigh. Stand up. Don’t straddle his lap because as much as I want it, it would be counter-productive right now. Instead, with all the grace twelve years of training can give me, I sink to my knees before him. Slide my right hand out first, palm flat, align the left in a holy triangle. Bow. Back straight. Eyes down. Wait.

“Sheik?” He asks, barely a whisper.

“ _Domine_.” I speak into the hardwood, scented every so lightly by the honey of the wax used to keep it glossy over centuries, not daring to raise my head enough to even glimpse his socked feet. “Thou giv’st me purpose an’ honors divine. Thou art alone the one to whom I look for guidance, for glory, my master. Mine.” The lines of Sheik Ali Ghieri in the epic poem _The Seven Sages: Path of a Hero_ from the forth Era say it far better than I ever could, especially when I allow some of the possessiveness I feel to spill into the address. I may be his Sheik, but _mine_ is the voice he will heed. I’ve passed the Trials _twice_ for him.

The pressure of his hand on my head, covering just enough of my face to touch skin, still makes me shudder. I should have bound up my hair, but then it would take days to dry.

“Therefore I think and judge it for thy best that thou join with me, and I shall make thee mine. To lead thee from shadows, to e’er be by my side.” His words, technically Princess Zelda Aria Hyrule’s in the following stanzas of the canto itself, surprise me. Please me. He did say he was studying history. The fall of the Middle Kingdom and revelation of the Twilight Realm did make something of an impact on the rest of the world. Still, I didn’t expect him to know the poem well enough to quote it appropriately.

He can probably feel my face warming beneath his hand, but I need to make my point absolutely undeniable.

“I know you hate this. The concept of slavery in general, of the Sheik in particular.” I swallow against the emotion I can’t keep from my voice, and it makes my tone waver, but fuck if my enunciation is even slightly off. What use is a Sheik that has no words? What use am I? “Just think of it like any other promise, any other relationship, and it’ll be fine.”

“It’s not, though. You can’t seriously think that.” He rasps, sliding from his chair to kneel in front of me, his hands tugging to get me to sit up.  I won’t. He can’t make me. Not yet.

“If you act with honor, integrity, and serve Hyrule to the best of your ability, then it is.  As long as _you_ don’t…hurt me for fulfilling my duties…then there’s no problem at all.” Oh, could he hurt me. Destroy me, all without meaning to. But he won’t, any more than Eran would have. Not on purpose. Not without changing what he is so drastically as to be an entirely different person. It’s my job to make sure that never happens. That those of the Royal line remain beholden to the people they are to rule.

“I would never.” He swears, already knowing it, just pissed off at his lack of choice. He can’t refuse, and knows it. Not without changing who he is. He won’t abandon me. He won’t condemn another to the life I’ve led. Those two options mean accepting something he hates will give the best results for everyone else…just not him. It’s not what he wants, and for such a privileged little shit, he’s dealing a far sight better than I’d have thought possible. Stubborn, though. He’s still trying to figure out a way to get what he wants in the way he wants it. There’s a choice for him alright, and he knows what he needs to do. What I want him to do. Honor compels us both, but only one of us gets to pick.

Responsibility. It’s the heaviest thing out there.

“Please don’t turn me away.” I beg. So much for not dripping on the hardwood. I know what choice I want him to make, but what I want and what I get aren’t even internet friends.

“Sheik. _Kaya_. Look at me.” He orders, not even realizing he’s done it. I look, and his solemn countenance gazes back. Frowning. Lips pursed, eyes tight, jaw clenched, shoulders hunched. Unhappy. Resigned. “Do you really want this? Not…not just the benefits, because if so I’m sure I can find you a job somewhere that will use your talents and I’ll pay for your school and let you live here anyway but Kaya…are you sure?”

“Yes.” I nod, wiping at the moisture on his face that would become a tear if it falls. “You spoon.”

As long as Link is laughing, everything is right in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter finished re-reading earlier than I expected! (trying for one every two weeks) ...then I notice all the mistakes in the previous eight and experience some regret. I'll make minor corrections - spelling, punctuation, capitalization - in the next few days, then get to reviewing chapter 10 so I can hopefully post it before the 21st.


	10. Crash And...Burn?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link's P.O.V. once again, despite being in the dark.

“You disappoint me, fairy-boy.” Malon jibes, frowning, hands on her hips but laughter in her voice. “I asked for pictures.”

“I was a little busy, May. Still am.” I plead. The Hateno Codices aren’t exactly light - or easy - reading. Mostly boring, and a lot repetitive, as though the author or authors were attempting to apply scientific principles to magic before there was even a way to properly measure it, and all of it couched in mystic babbling. At least the mixes in the alchemical texts from the same time period are replicable. Disgusting, usually, and I sure don’t want to see if I can find Hinox guts lying anywhere in the mall so I can make an elixir that wears off before I can forget I drank Hinox guts.

“But he’s so pretty…” She mock-whines.

“Take some pictures yourself.” Tetra grumbles around a pencil, still trying to scratch out two identical answers in a row for her macro-economics class. I’d offer to help, but my skill in mathematics of any kind ends where letters start getting involved. I can still spell boobies on a calculator upside down like a champ, though, and it makes Tetra laugh. Then moan.

“Do you think he’d let me?” Malon asks, and I snort, losing my place on the page for the fifth time in half as many minutes, for the same reason.

"Ask him.” I shrug, and drop my eyes to pretend to read. I can’t even remember where I left off, it all looks the same. I don’t even know if I’m on this page or the one folded between my fingers.

“It’ll only hurt your delicate sensibilities.” Tetra, muffled in her graph paper, doesn’t get back to work either.

“Delicate. Ha.” Claree snorts from where she’s supposed to be writing an argument supporting sex segregation at the high-school level and failing miserably. I haven’t heard her touch her keyboard the entire time she’s been here.

“Alright, I’m going.” Malon puffs out, psyching herself up.  I put my translation down and watch, because she’s right. He is pretty. So is she. So is Tetra. They’re all pretty in different ways, and definitely worth watching. After Sheik essentially flung himself at me this morning – well, when I finally got up – I hadn’t expected them to waltz in with their homework and set up in my reception room before I stopped laughing.

At least it wasn’t as awkward as with Niko, even though Sheik was technically wearing less today. Even if you include the markings. He didn’t have them yesterday morning, and I saw enough of his skin to be certain of that. Tasted most of it, too. Touched it all. They weren’t there, and he clearly doesn’t want to talk about them. That reluctance is one of three things keeping me from pestering him about it, the others are unexpected company and physical distance.

There’s space for four at my coffee table, especially with books, but once I’d finished brushing my teeth Sheik was already at the tea table with breakfast dishes pushed aside and his slate out and typing. Looking particularly stereotypically Sheikah-like, with the glaring huge tattoo on his face, long bound-up hair, and subconscious grace.

“Hey gorgeous, can I get a picture to keep me warm when I head back home, all by my lonesome?” Malon drawls, southern accent fully out and breathless, making her perfect breasts rise and fall alongside her intonation.

“Lord Korokshire know you’re fucking his fiancé?” Sheik asks in return, not turning away from his paper. Abrasive – bordering on outright rude – but both Tetra and I have warned her, and Malon takes it in stride.

“Fucking him too, if you want to join us. I bet you’re fantastic on your knees.” Blunt as ever, they could be best friends. More than friends, maybe, though with how vocal they both are sound-proofed walls are a must. And now I have a problem that should have stayed quiet until at least tonight, between my stamina and Kaya’s enthusiasm.

Goddess, I think my ears are red.

“Nah. Paper to write. Chapter to read. Army of the undead to raise. Wife to murder. Guilder to frame for it. I’m swamped.” Kaya turns to quotations midway through, but he’s not protesting nearly as much as I expected after a day shopping with Senza, and I have to wonder if he’s annoyed with me for letting them in. I hope not, because once Tetra and I are married, quarters are going to be much closer than they are right now in a very literal sense.

“And after? I do get so very cold when I’m alone and could really use some…company.” Malon presses, bending over to give Sheik a view of her boobs that would be much more impressive if she wasn’t wearing a turtle-neck sweater. Kaya just raises a pointer finger and taps out another twenty-odd keystrokes before turning to face her directly.

I still don’t know what to think of that tattoo. It’s so red and…and _spooky_.

“How warm?” He asks her. “You’re obviously not frigid.”

“Tetra tells me your mouth’s already NC-17, so preferably PG-15 or better, but I’m thinking stills, not motion pictures.”

“Anything outright pornographic you’ll have to ask Link.” And oh, yeah, he’s pissed about something with that growl. “And nothing makes it online.”

“If you’re willing to make that noise again, and let me take a few pics at a hard R, I won’t need to go online.” She breathes, and my ears can’t be the only thing that’s red. I can’t pick up my book without making it obvious that I’m just holding it to cover my own reaction to that sound. I haven’t forgotten the way he mewls when pushed to his pleasure, even if I did spend all day yesterday with two lovely ladies. All day on camera, myself. Discussing Tetra’s future plans, my future plans around hers, and if we’ve set an approximate date even if it is extended beyond the standard engagement period.

If Sheik’s willing to let Malon film, those three years won’t take long, and I won’t need to go to the internet again, either.  At least, not for that. Sometimes his slang isn’t immediately contextually evident, and no self-respecting dictionary updates that quickly.

“Come, then.” He stands, shutting down his slate and steering Malon towards the bedroom. “We’d have to clean up a bit if we’re doing this, but there’s better lighting in here.”

“Oh I know, Link can be such a slob...” She says, but she’s leering at him and not paying me any attention at all. The albums, removable hard-drive, and seasonal calendar she has of me may have something to do with it. “…but his abs. There’s chiseled. Chiseled!”

“Ladies first.” Kaya bows over the doorway, with a controlled grace that should remind me that he’s been trained from the cradle to do it, but instead just reminds me that I haven’t pressed him against a wall, yet. The bed, the floor, and the couch, yes. The wall, no. Not the table, either.

“Oh, a gentleman.” Malon teases. Then gasps. “Link! You’re worse than a pig, and I raise pigs so I would know!” She shouts, storming into my bedroom towards the bed where yesterday’s clothes sit in a pile. Sort of. The word pile implies a single location. Kaya closes the door with him on this side of it. Grabs a chair. Stuffs it under the door handle. Picks up his slate. Leaves my suite entirely.

“You’d better follow him, we’re missing something.” Tetra tells me, and I agree. I’m also the best person to go.  As his master, even if I still don’t like it, he _has_ to obey. I have to listen. Tetra is a princess and is unlikely to get anything but a servile response. Malon means well, but delicacy isn’t her strong suit, and she and tact aren’t even on speaking terms. Claree and Kaya I don’t think have said more than a dozen words to each other, most of them hostile.

So I go. Like a video game character trying to build reputation points with a vendor of rare and unusual items, I go carefully. I catch him by the elevator, trying to go up, probably to the library. I wonder if it’s been dusted this year, then kick myself for it, because Telma would have seen to it that it was.

“Sheik, wait.” I ask, and even though he’s standing still, he freezes. Waits for me to catch up. The elevator door opens, closes. He cocks his head, staring, waiting. “I’m sorry.” I apologize.

“Pardon my language, but the fuck for, Link?” He grimaces, and pushes the call button again.

“Malon is a bit forward. She just likes you.” I explain.

“That…that…ah, fuck.” He sighs, his head thunking against the wall as the elevator opens again. “Today, I just want to finish my paper, dry off a bit, and relax before tonight. Is that too much to ask?”

“Not at all.” I shake my head, and open the cage so he can get on the elevator ahead of me.

“Then why’d you let her come after me like a bitch in heat?” He asks, stepping inside so I can close the cage again.

“Malon’s my friend.” I start, wondering how to explain. “You’re…I’d like you to be my friend, too. No matter what else you are. I want my friends to get along, or at least tolerate each other. That’s important to…”

The elevator shudders and drops until I can barely see out the door, lurches, and the world goes black as it falls.

 

 

 

               

 

It doesn’t have far to go, just over a story, but that’s still enough that I scream and that landing _hurts_ , but not in a way that’s serious.  I hold still long enough to check that nothing’s broken, and for Sheik to start swearing. I can’t make sense of it, but the sound alone is a relief and a direction for me to crawl towards. He yelps when I find his leg, but grabs on to my hand pretty quick once he realizes it’s just me.

We sit and pant in the darkness for what seems like forever.

“Did you bring your cell?” Sheik asks me as his breathing evens out, and I pat my pocket to check even though I know the answer. It’s still on the coffee table.

“No.”

“Mine’s charging...” He admits, and shifts with a clatter that almost hides a grunt of pain. “…and my slate is in at least three pieces. Any ideas?”

“I might be able to climb the cable, if there’s one still up.” Probably. I haven’t done any rope climbing since primary school, but I remember how. Mostly.

“Don’t be any more of an idiot than you have to be. Help me find the ceiling hatch, I’ll go.”

“You’re hurt. I’ll…”

“No, I’m not. Why’d you…”

“I heard you grunt.”

“I just found out the essay that I’ve spent the last three and a half hours writing and locked a Duchess in your bedroom over has probably been destroyed along with my slate. Including all my notes. I’m aggrieved, not injured.” He sighs. “Besides, I’m lighter than you are. If there is a cable left, it’s probably not in very good shape, and you can lift me easier than I can boost you.”

“You’re scrawny.” I argue. “Can you even lift your own body weight?” I can, I do it at least twenty times a week. Never more than five in a set though, and it’s a long way up to the ground level.

“You’re not expendable. Can you even see what you’re…”

“Link?! Sheik?! Are you alive?” Tetra calls.

“Yes!” I shout back, relief turning my legs to water.  Neither of us has to risk climbing a dubious wire cord in a nearly century old cement shaft. Tetra can call for help.

“Are you okay?” Malon asks.

“Mostly!”

“I wasn’t talking to you, fairy-boy!” Malon teases, the relief turning her words from an insult to a friendly jibe.

“We’re fine!” Kaya assures them both.

“Help is on the way!” Tetra replies, but I know how long it takes to get from Castletown to Korokshire both at the speed limit and maybe a little bit slightly way above it. The first emergency vehicles will be at least fifteen minutes, anything that can actually get us out closer to an hour.

I’m ridiculously pleased when Sheik calls forth fire, and wish I’d thought of it. Light to see by, even if there isn’t much to see, makes being trapped with him in a small box for the foreseeable future into an opportunity rather than something akin to torture. There’s no breeze to stir the flame, no smoke to worry about inhaling, but he’s thin and it’s cold and magic costs energy that he doesn’t have to spare.

“How long can you keep that up?” I ask. As happy as it makes me to have light, I can barely make out the mangled gate on the elevator car’s front, and we’ll need to see once people with the right equipment show up. He’s much closer, and not hurt, but badly shaken. His eyes are nearly all pupil, reflecting like a cat’s in the low light. And even though my breathing has calmed since he called the flame orb into being, his hasn’t. In fact, it’s sped up.

The whimper convinces me it’s not shock, or another panic attack. I don’t hear anything untoward, but when I turn around to look my own yelp isn’t any less higher pitched. The same damage that mangled the gate has torn through most of the back wall, and what I can see is absolutely covered in spider webbing. It’s dusty and pretty tattered, but thick. Even where our crash has torn strips through it, I can barely make out the cement shaft underneath it.

Gross, but also really cool. I kind of want to text Agatha about it, since she likes bugs so much, but don’t want to risk my phone being dropped that far and know that our rescuers will probably destroy it completely. Even Sheik’s conjured flame getting too close would make the old, dry webbing disappear in a flash of smoke and fire, so I can’t ask him to bring it in enough to get a better look.

Not that he’s going to do it anyway. I’m not sure that he’d do it even after I complete the open coda of magic that sings between us. Well, the siren song that originates in whatever he and Impa did yesterday and calls me to him like a moth to the faint flame he holds almost steady. Calls any Hylian to him, really. Anyone sensitive to it would be affected. I know he started having sex at fourteen, and wonder how much of that was because of this, too. Part of Malon’s fascination is that subtle pull, and the fact that he is remarkably beautiful, even with the markings.

It’s dangerous. For him. I recognize it for what it is, and it _still_ draws me in. How Tetra can stand it with Claree so close all the time is a testament to her strength of will. It’s not torture, to feel that call in my bones, but for someone who’s never suffered, never had to go without something they wanted, it would be almost unbearable _not_ to act on it.

I still miss my mother, desperately, to this very day. I’m used to not having something, _someone_ , by my side when I want them to be. I can resist, but he’s not moving, and his heart’s racing with the same kind of speed and terror that made him pass out at Uncle Goriya’s Pizzeria. That, more than the urge to mark him, pin him down, _possess_ him, is what gets me to move back and sit next to him.

“So is it claustrophobia or arachnophobia that’s got you all worked up?” I ask, taking the hand that’s not holding the fire. It’s cold.

“Neither.” He whispers, swallowing hard. “Gohma.”

“Technically that’s arachnophobia. Gohma are just really big spiders.” I remember that much at least from my History of Myth class last term.

“And _that_ is a Gohma.” He points, but I don’t see anything. Don’t hear anything. Nothing moves aside from his furiously pounding heart.

“It’s just cobwebs. This place hasn’t been cleaned in ages.” I reassure, wrapping my arm around his trembling shoulders to both calm and warm him. He’s cold all over. Too skinny to stay warm, but still pretty. Still so alluring that I have to remind myself not to taste. Not when the teeth he’s expecting are monstrous. He squeaks when I pull him onto my lap, leaning us against the one solid wall, but if he’s going to keep that light burning bright until we’re free of this place he needs to devote all of his energy to doing that instead of keeping warm. That, and I want him again. Already. Holding him will have to do.

“Fuck, let go. What if it’s not dead?” Despite his words, he huddles inward, and I don’t mind that. Not at all. Just because I can identify and resist the call of his renewed aetheric shackles doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate scratching the itch.

“All corrupted creatures dissolve and remnants return to the Dark Realm upon defeat, remember?” Soothing him is harder than I anticipated, but he doesn’t push me away.

“Not dead then.” He whines. “Oh, Farore, it’s not dead.”

“Sheik, breathe. There’s no…”

It moves.

“It’s not dead!” I whine, squeezing Kaya hard and making him squeak again, louder.

I thought it was just more of the dirty, cobweb covered wall, but no. No, no, no, no, no. The segment of leg is as long as my arm, at least. At least! Absolutely covered with hairs nearly as long as my middle finger. If this is Fate’s idea of a joke, ha. Ha ha ha. Very funny.

Just a twitch, but now that I know what it is I can’t ignore it. It doesn’t twitch again.

“Can you let go of me?” The words are soft, tremulous, and frightened, giving voice to my own feelings on the matter.

“Don’t want to.” I swallow, but relax my grip, which can’t have been comfortable. I’ve probably given him bruises as good as the ones the Grand Master’s magic took away.

“Thanks.” He mutters, but makes no move to get away. When I can trust myself again, I reach out, hold him close. He doesn’t protest. We don’t move. Barely breathe. Watching. Listening. Waiting. Nothing.

“How do you even kill a Gohma?” I ask after long minutes pass. If it’s not dead, and any emergency crews show up and disturb it before we can warn them…

“How should I know?!” He hisses.

“You knew what to do about the Hinox.” I reason.

“A Hinox is a remnant, not a corruption.” He shudders. “Corruptions are just natural things that have been, well, corrupted.”

“So kill it like a spider?”

“Can’t exactly step on something that size now, can we?” Waving toward the massive single segment of a single leg, he has a point.

“We already did.” I have a point, too. The elevator car is squishing it. Slowly. Sort of. Keeping it pinned, at least. “Burn it with fire?”

“I’d rather not, thanks.” He drawls.

“I thought you could stop an avalanche.” I’m almost entirely certain he can see my raised eyebrow, even though he’s nothing more than _disturbing_ set of glowing eyes and a golden blur of skin and hair to me. Unable to rely on my vision, it makes the sound of him stronger. Increases the call. The want. Fortunately, fear keeps any inappropriate reactions to his proximity at bay.

“I could, and I’d die of it. Her Highness was right about that.”

“The Gohma thing is a lot smaller than an avalanche, and you just got a new converter.”

“Have you ever been to a Goron cookout, Link?” As far as I’ve had to stretch to understand some of his references and hyperbole, this one leaves me baffled.

“Like the one they hold every year to commemorate the re-opening of Death Mountain? Of course, everyone goes.” What that has to do with anything is beyond my comprehension.

“Spare me from Hylian stupidity.” Sheik moans, shifting. I think he actually put his face in his hand from how his words are muffled.

“I don’t understand.” I admit, and he goes soft at my side. “Tell me?”

"They cook like, ten whole cows, right? Pit beef. Buns. Cabbage crap for all the non-Goron visitors. Serve it on paper plates, makes the whole side of the Mountain reek of it for days?”

“And it’s _delicious_. Wait. You’ll burn the Gohma if I take you for pit beef?” I ask, eager to know something that he actually likes to eat, not just will eat when presented with the opportunity. He needs to eat more, and it’s easier if it’s something you like. I know I eat more than I should when it’s something I like. It seems a fair assumption to make.

He rolls his eyes loud enough for me to hear him do it.

I’m still taking him for pit beef once we get out of here, though.

“How is pit beef cooked, Link?”

“Put in a pit full of ashes, covered for a day, comes out melt-in-your-mouth tender and wonderful?” I don’t know what spices the Gorons use on their particular rub, but it seems like every year it gets tastier than the last.

“Where are we?”

“On top of a spider the size of a compact car?”

“Which is where?”

“In the bottom of an elevator shaft.”

“Surrounded by?”

“Cobwebs.”

“Very flammable cobwebs.” He corrects. “In a wooden and metal cage. Are you seeing the problem with me setting everything on fire yet?”

“Yes.” I cough. His point is much better than mine. “No fire. Got it.”

“Water, though…” He muses.

“Water?” Still thinking about becoming barbecue, it takes me a second to understand. Only a second though. “Drown it?”

“Proportionally, given the distance between joints and thorax on an average wolf spider, and the one segment we can see not being broken, its head should be about…here. Upside down. As long as the shaft itself isn’t opened directly into the bog, I’ll be able to flood it out.” He points, way too close to our collective left side.

“And that will kill it?”

“Maybe. Spiders don’t…drown quickly.” He shudders.

He’s right, and almost seizing with shivers by the time the segment puffs to ash and darkness and disappears as the emergency rescue crews wait for an all clear. There’s no way he can climb out, fingers curled in spasms and teeth chattering loudly enough for Tetra and Malon to hear. Being soaking wet doesn’t help, but better that than risking the Gohma being able to breathe.

I make the E.M.T.s take him first, even though they’ve been told I’m the priority. Telma’s kept the kids and non-essential staff from the action, which I appreciate, and Malon’s cleaned up. Not that there was a lot of mess, but I rather the news crews not seeing my dirty underwear on the floor through my doorway. After our official press conference yesterday, the last thing I need is everyone at all interested in that tuning in to RNN, HBC, or HBN and seeing the mild to moderate disaster I usually keep in my space.

News crews, gawkers, some of the crazed stalkers that are the reason Tetra usually travels in a car built like a tank, and the entirety of my household staff are present. At least the A.R.G. have pushed anyone without proper clearance back to the lawn. The cold chased the simply curious away after that. Agatha’s going to be visiting tomorrow for samples and to hopefully find the gohma’s wolf-spider corpse for analysis.

I’m just glad to be in the light again, though the flash bulbs and crew lights from RNN are brighter than comfortable even if I hadn’t been sitting in a dark, flooded pit for almost two hours.

“Lord Korokshire, can you give us a word?”

“One question!”

“Richard von Hestu’s only child, Lincoln Fitzherbert von Hestu the fourth, has just emerged from the bottom of an elevator shaft in his family residence, Korokshire Manor.”

“…a second victim…”

“…when the young Lord risked his own life for a member of his staff, a Sheikah male of…”

“Why risk yourself for a spook? As the only heir of Korokshire’s illustrious…”

It’s rude, but I don’t care. I close the door of the ambulance in the Keaton Report’s head propagandist’s face.

“Don…don…nt…wa…d…don’t…” Sheik stutters, curled in three blankets with an intravenous drip already sending liquid and muscle relaxants into his system. He can’t lie down, he’s so tight. Cold. Not that I’m much warmer, but I wasn’t the one holding the spell. Just holding him.

“We’re heading to St. Carben’s.” The E.M.T. that set up the second drip tells me. “Friend or family?”

“Fffa..m..aml…ly.” Sheik gets out, though it costs him a lot. I don’t argue. He tries to, but can’t string two syllables together, let alone finish a sentence. No is just one. He manages that one well.

“St. Carben’s is fine.” I tell them, and Sheik moans. “I can contact Grand Master Impa once we’re there.” Corner her. Make her talk. Tell me why, exactly and precisely, that level of coercive magic is needed. Holding him for the two hours it took to safely get out and hearing the pained gasps from the strain of sustaining the water bubble was torture enough. The embellished flourishes of an extremely subtle spell weaving an aria over his own magic just barely in range of my hearing made me strain to listen, making it more effective. Knowing that my reaction to him was influenced – though not entirely created – made it all a hundred times worse.

Even now, with him finally thawing out enough to pass out, I have to actively remind myself that the cramped back of an ambulance is cramped, and a stretcher isn’t meant to hold him still for me. It’s to hold him still for the medical personnel to tend to him. I tell my libido to take a hike. It doesn’t help.

It is a long, long ride.

He’s unconscious by the time we get to the hospital, no next of kin in the records, no general practitioner, no dental records, even. Just my word, and his, that I should be there at all, so I can’t make any medical decisions for him or on his behalf. I call the Grand Master, get an answering service, and use the seven minutes I’m given to say things I’m sure I’ll regret later. Hospital security keeps the news vans, paparazzi, and stalkers from swarming either of us, though from one nurse’s angry muttering there’s one potential source of trouble to guard against.

I call Tetra, who is on the way back to the Royal Residence. I’m disappointed, but understand, and she really shouldn’t come here. That would be a disaster. Call Senza, who tells me to call Zuko for a replacement slate and to see if anything can be saved from the old one. Call Telma to keep her updated. Call my father, seeing how part of the manor will have to be refurbished, and get his secretary’s secretary as usual. He hasn’t even texted a congratulations for my engagement. Not that I’m surprised.

Then the waiting starts. And I hate every moment of it.

Sit in the hard plastic chairs, watch the static skitter on the screen and catch maybe every sixth word from the news crews still at the manor. Close my eyes for a moment. Just a moment.

“Lord Korokshire?” A nurse in scrubs with cartoon cuccos all over it calls. “Sheik Lurelin is awake and requesting your presence.”

“Thank you.” Getting up is more effort than I anticipated, but once I’m moving I can follow her to Sheik’s room.

He looks drained, and sounds sick, and I never thought I’d be glad to be cursed at.

“You done?” I ask, the beginnings of a headache making my already frayed temper shorter.

“I don’t know, are you going to ignore me, fuck me, or just kidnap me again?” The coughing fit that follows takes most of the sting from his words, and knowing that yes, I will, takes care of the rest.

“Only if you continue to refuse to take care of yourself.” I tell him, sitting on the edge of his bed. St. Carben’s is the newest hospital in Castletown, and it seems like the bed in his private room is bigger. I can sit on it without shoving him to the edge.

“I take care of myself just fine.” He rasps.

“Want to not lie to me?” I don’t care how much of an insult it is, and I figure it’s pretty big by how he goes still and quiet aside from the burbling in his chest. It shuts him up as I curl around him and drape my arm over his waist. He’s cool, and I’m more tired than I thought.

“It’s not a lie.” He denies as I drift off, comfortable and comforted. “I should have died a long time ago, so why not…”

I want to smack him for it, but that would be counter-productive. We’ll talk later. Right now, I need a nap.

“…now, _domine?_ ”

I wonder which one he’s talking to, and sleep.


	11. Growth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sheik's P.O.V. ... the poor bastard.

He’s lying on my hair. Warm. Solid next to me in a way that nothing else is. I haven’t drained myself this badly in years, and know that everything will hurt later because of it. My head has a pretty good start, and the rest will follow once the drugs wear off. Once the ghosts of memories and dreams turn to nightmares. Once he goes back to treating me like…I don’t know. It’s weird, and uncomfortable, and I don’t know how to react around him. He’s weird and uncomfortable. He keeps giving and giving and giving, and almost every other Hylian with any kind of power I’ve ever known just takes.

All the time.

My arm hurts. I don’t…even through the drugs that make my vision swim and cover everything in molasses and fairy lights, it hurts, and that’s bad. It’s bad. I’m bad. It should hurt. That’s how I can tell it’s real. How I can tell I’m real. If it doesn’t hurt, it can’t be real. It can’t. I can’t.

I’ve gotten used to being Kaya, and I can’t be anymore. Sheik is too small for me to crawl back inside. Whatever I am now has eaten them both. Om nom nom nom nom. Crumbs and spit and fuck, laughing hurts too. Makes the cartoon cuccos squawk and stare. Goddesses. Shut up, Kaya.

Bad. Bad. Bad. Shut up, boy, if you know what’s good for you. Be quiet, you useless spook. Hold your tongue or lose it. Put it to a better use. Useless like this. Useless.

I _hate_ being this drained. Weak. Used up.

Lord Lincoln is around four centimeters taller than I am, so it makes his hold awkward. Weird. Uncomfortable. Heavy. He’s lying on my hair. I turn my head to check and wind up dizzy, feeling like I’m falling and back in the pit on top of the Gohma at the same time. The pressure in my veins from the intravenous drip stays steady as my neck and back cramp up. Spasm. Not as bad as the last one. Even asleep, the motion makes him tighten his grip on my waist and murmur into my ear.

Drool on my neck. Fucking gross. Bedside table’s behind him, and the bedding soaks up liquid about as well as a rock. Even that little bit of slobber’s enough to get me blooming, though. Gasping and wanting and Saints and Sages if he binds me to him with nasty cold spit sinking into my skin I’ll never live it down. The Duchess was right, his abs are chiseled, and with how well he does two-man push-ups I was hoping for another dose of erectoplasm to do the job. Not slobber. Not sleeping. Fucker’s on my hair. It pulls when I move, so I know it’s real. He’s here. On my hair. My arm hurts. My head too. Doesn’t matter.

Goddess, _shut up_ , Kaya. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Focus on what’s important. He’s asleep. He’s okay. He’s warm. He’s on my hair, but I can still curl into his arm better and take some of the pressure off my skull. Close my eyes against the ghosts watching us. Judging me. Shouldn’t be so weak. Need to be strong. Stop shaking. Calamity. Should shove him on the floor with the saliva he keeps leaking. The world blurs like a constantly swirling toilet that just won’t flush, and I stare at the ceiling and ignore the drool so I don’t have to watch.

It’s mostly dry by the time the doctor visits, and I only know that she’s real because the rest of the ghosts whisper to themselves and to me. Trust her, they say. They like her. I do, too, but not because they tell me to. All her colors and lines scream confidence and competence, leaving no space for prejudice in her assessments. Half-Human and maybe Gerudo, for her skin to be that dark. Darker than mine, and more cinnamon than my tan.

“Hello, Kaya. I’m Dr. Borville. It appears you have a rather large growth not mentioned in your charts. Would you like me to have it removed?” She asks, not so much as cracking a smile. Link chooses that moment to snort and bury his face deeper into the crook of my neck because of course he does, the fucking spoon. Glaring makes me dizzy. Where did the cuccos go? Fuck. Stop it, Kaya. Pay attention. Talk to the doctor lady. She asked a question. You promised you’d be nice.

“It’s benign, so only if it starts causing difficulties.” I mutter, wishing that his breath on my nape didn’t make me want to roll over and beg. His weight, his warmth, on me but without intent, without desire, and without his cock _in_ me is a subtle form of torture. He needs to get off. Either way. Literally or metaphorically. Fuck, _shut up_ you dumb spook.

“I just need to do a quick check-up, give you a booster, and then you should be fine to go home.” She tells me, and goes about it once she has my agreement. As she works, some of the dazed fog in my head clears enough that it’s almost like I can breathe again. I end up with a series of exercises to help with my arm as well as a second bottle of energizing booster to drink when I get home. It tastes like caffeinated frog piss mixed with squid ink, which isn’t far off from what it’s made of.

Don’t ask how I know that. Even if it’s nearly entirely synthetic, the alchemists that first dreamed it up couldn’t do a thing about the flavor, and modern technology hasn’t changed that any aside from adding a bunch of sugar and putting in in aluminum cans instead of bottles or jugs. As if that helps. Blech. I’ll still drink it, but I don’t have to like it. I don’t have to like any of this. I like the weight of him on my hair, just enough to make it hurt. Make it real. I shouldn’t, but I do, and I don’t like that. It’s bad. I’m bad. Defective.

“If you need a cab, just tell one of the volunteers at information. And don’t go drowning any more Gohmas for at least a few days.” She teases when she’s done. I thought doctors had to give up a sense of humor along with their souls to even be admitted into med school, and am pleased to be proven wrong. She just keeps hers in a jar, locked behind sarcasm and buried in salt.  I know the feeling well. Freed from the shackles of my second hospital trip of the week and the medical tape that goes with it, I just have to roll my master off my shoulder to get him to wake up. That hurts too, but fuck if I’ll let him see it or let myself enjoy it at all.

“Sheik? Wassit. Whas happenennn?” He mumbles, bleary and still looking as exhausted as I feel. The molasses has cleared, but it’s still as slow as a funeral procession and tacky as velvet wallpaper, tugging at my vision every time I blink. Making me want to stay under his living blanket and fucking cuddle. Saints and Sages, what is wrong with me?

“I’m free to go.” He can go home, and I can follow to the place where I’m sleeping now, but it’s not home for me. Not yet at least, but maybe someday. Not that I have anywhere else to call home anyway. Takes too long to say, so I don’t even try. “Got your phone?”

“Mm. ‘s in my pock’t.” With a bit of digging, he holds it out to me like it’s some sort of prize.

“We need a ride.” Explaining what I see to him is literally the job I’m “applying” for, but if that means having to walk him through every step of what to do about it is going to happen for everything, I might seek out that red-headed Duchess after all. Princess Tetra could still change her mind. I’ve never been fucked by a woman, but it can’t be all that different. Tab A into slot B, repeat until messy. Not that I’ve been with a man like that either, but there’s a first time for everything.

I’d bet she’d spank me if I asked nicely.

Din’s flaming arms do I want to be spanked.

Fortunately for my sanity, Lord Lincoln manages to call for a ride all on his own, and the energizing booster is doing more for me than I hoped. My magic isn’t this sad, pathetic fizzle anymore, even though it’s no seltzer in soda yet either. A badly poured beer. Yeah. About there. I’d be lucky to stop a puddle, let alone an avalanche. Hopefully I won’t have to. Not until I’ve slept for a week, and eaten both Link’s breakfast and mine. I just need to…

Fuck. My slate. My papers. My _notes._

“Hey, you okay?” He asks, and cover me in violet chintz and call me a chaise lounge, but _his_ slate is just fine. I can pound out both my essays in a day and a half if he’ll let me borrow it, and rewrite all my notes out by hand if I need to. Which I do, because my slate is so much scrap and without a shiny scholarship fund to replace the fucker, I’m stuck working old school.

Sacred bleeding fuck if I’ll ask him for anything else. My debt’s already beyond what I can hope to pay off, and the Fierce Deity knows he’s doesn’t want the only thing I have left to give him. Not unless it’s on his terms, his time, and his bed. As though my open bindings aren’t tearing me apart for want of some sort of connection. Any connection. Physical is easiest, but now that I’m ready and willing and able he won’t fucking _fuck_ _me_ and finish it.

“I’m fine.” And I am. Not great, mind you, but fine. I’ve got to be. He sighs like Cyclos and slides away to sit up. I try and do the same, and end up coughing. Just what I needed. His warm hand on my back, rubbing soothing circles, just makes me cough harder. Hard enough to retch, and from the kidney basin on the side table, it’s not the first time. I don’t…remember that.

Not that I remember much after the water hit my knees and the Gohma started twitching again. Fuck, I don’t want to. I’ll take blacking out over something that’s guaranteed to give me screaming blue nightmares any day.

“…maybe not so fine.” I gasp when I’m sure my stomach and lungs are cooperating again.

“Do you want to stay here? I can call…”

“ _Fuck_ no. Wanna go.” If I can get over the flu while living in a utility shed in the winter, I can handle a chill that’s halfway to being a cold in a fucking manor house when most of the snow’s already melted and the Silent Princesses are sprouting. I’ve definitely lived through worse. Of course, back then I hadn’t figured out that the only pain worse than dying could be living another day. I’d still thought that distinction belonged to being abandoned and unwanted by the family of the man I’d spent my life fair worshipping. Living’s easy. Just keep doing it. Take the pain in stride. Enjoy it if you can.

I’ve learned.

I’ve also learned that, when stressed, I don’t cope in a socially acceptable manner. I swear, and go out looking to get hurt. For a skinny spook in Castletown, getting hurt is easier than getting wet in the Water Temple. I should take up drinking instead, it’s be easier on my spleen. But then I’d just be another unemployed, lazy, addict spook, and fuck that. Fuck that hard, and use the blood as lube. Shit, though, if thinking about it doesn’t make me want it twice as bad. He could tear me apart, here and now, and I’d thank him for it.

“You’re going straight to bed as soon as we get back if I have to hold you there.” Lordling grumbles, and yeah, don’t I _wish_ he’d pin me to the mattress and smother me with a pillow. Just enough to get me twitching and gasping and glad to be alive again. Not that it would take much, with my nose deciding that it wants to run away and grow up to be a faucet.

Too much stress, too cold, for too long. He’s been at my side through it all, with no damn reason to do it. Yeah, sure, _now_ he has a reason to want me hale and whole beyond a convenient fuck hole that won’t result in bastards, but he didn’t know that before the Grand Master confirmed that my bonds could be reset. No one’s ever just…been nice for the sake of it. No one. Not even Eran. Link’s fucking _weird_.

I need to get used to it. Stop being surprised at kindness and a gentle touch for no reason that I can discern. He doesn’t get anything from it that I can tell, beyond my reluctant gratitude. But everyone does everything for their own damn benefit. Everyone. I just need to get his angle, and then I can handle it. Maybe.

Link’s no Eran, and I couldn’t be happier for it. With how I’ve spent my life, upholding the promises I made to a dead man, I’m just…fucking confused. The drugs and low grade fever probably have something to do with that, but like the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, or the tip of the iceberg, they’re barely a token to the rest of the weight. I can’t decide, if I had to do it over, if I’d still toss the first damn egg at the Wizzrobe, or if I’d just run and let grease-weasel and Hot Shit take care of it.

Hind-sight’s twenty-twenty, Kaya-bitch. Live with your decisions ‘cause being dead means you don’t get to make them. If it’s a choice between a rock and a hard place, well, I still want the option to pick. It’s _my_ life, and if all I can do with it is fuck with people’s expectations, then that’s what I want. Violet spook or not, I’m still a person, and would like the dignity of being thought of as one. Even if that means being alone. Alone is easy. Just have to keep doing it, and take the pain in stride.

I snitch the box of tissues to take with me to the cab Link’s called, and it turns out to be Lady Senza. She’s pretty awesome for a Hylian, even if - like red-head - she’s a little too interested in seeing my funny business credentials. She can talk to Niko for a replay. Not a blow by blow, ‘cause that’s not what was happening when he decided knocking was for poltergeists. I’m just glad I can lay down in the back while Lord Prude calls shotgun. I fall asleep to the flashing streetlights in the window and the low murmur of their voices.

Lord Prude. It’s a much better nickname for him than hero, even though he must have carried me in, carried me upstairs, and put me to bed like a toddler complete with footie pajamas. Good fuck, what grown-ass man has footie pajamas? They’re his, too big on me by a size or four and the same nauseatingly vibrant green that is littered throughout his wardrobe like massive boogers just waiting to smear across the actual decent clothing that he has.

Speaking of boogers, I can breathe through my nose, which is a plus, but sitting up still makes me cough and that wakes him up faster than his first alarm. Faster than the second, too, but the third is about on par with the way he bolts upright and is halfway to the bathroom door before his brain catches up to his feet and he turns around. Between the pats on the back and the lazy circling, I figure out that the damn footie pajamas are supposed to be a dragon with spines and ridges and a yellow belly. I have to say he fusses worse than an arthritic granny, because at least a granny would know what to do and when to get the fuck out of dodge.

“I’ll just…run a bath.” He tells me, and from the expression on his face he may take the time to vomit while he’s in there. That’s a lot of mucus. I’d laugh if I wasn’t still choking. My lungs don’t take long to clear, forcing all the crud back up into my sinus now that I’m no longer lying down, and I’m hungry. And gross. Most of it I sprayed on his shirt, but not all. Not how I usually wake up sticky with every part of me hurting and no memory of how I got there.

It’s been _years_ Kaya. He was convicted. Get ahold of yourself, you paranoid _freak_.

I can ignore my stomach growling and gnawing on my spine, but I can’t ignore being dirty. Keeper taught us to always be clean, and I _like_ feeling scrubbed and refreshed and…and pure. No matter how stained and broken the rest of me gets, if I can just be physically clean, it doesn’t seem so bad. The bathroom’s close enough that I can hear the water running, and the thought of a bath or a shower is too good to resist, even if it means stumbling like an Anouki at the first snowfall of the season. Bonus is seeing my incipient master naked and wet. I won’t mind Looking to him _at all_.

Now, understand that when I say that Lord Lincoln is hot, I mean he is extremely aesthetically pleasing, not that his temperature is higher than average. Which it currently is, because the water’s warm and filling the room with steam, but he’s also _extremely_ aesthetically pleasing in a way that only the blessings of a Goddess, good food, regular exercise, and a metaphorical, veritable metric ton of grooming can provide. The hints of stubble on his jaw have yet to disappear beneath a razor, and yeah, his stomach is chiseled, but fuck, so is the rest of him.

Good shit.

Even, balanced features stamped in classic Hylian colors, a jawline that’ll cut you, thick blond hair, lightly tanned skin that tells me he either has underwear as tiny at the sequined jock-straps Lady Senza was tossing at me or goes full natural in a tanning bed, and defined musculature. Not the useless muscle that grease-weasel sports, either, but I can only blame the athleticism for the broad shoulders, sculpted waist, and thick thighs on display like a buffet. Goddesses, I want to swallow him whole. I know I can. He’s not going to be starring in any size queen porn any time soon, but he’s better than decent in the packaging. I’ve felt it ramming me but good, sucked him off in his car, but when he’s naked it makes it all so much better. And boy is he naked, raw and uncut.

“Sheik? Are you okay to be walking?” I must have moaned. Or whimpered. Or both. Maybe drooled a little. Nayru knows I’m still a mess of snot. Majora knows I need to be fucked. Din knows I’d like some control of my life, and Farore’d be happy to grant me the courage to ask. The Fierce Deity would just give me the beating I deserve for even thinking I can. Link…is waiting for me to respond.

If I go to him like this though I’m in for a world of hurt, and as good as some assault with a friendly weapon can be, if groundskeeper Rusl’s first step in my grooming process taught me anything it’s that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. I need to be ready for him, but at the same time no matter how bad I want it…he’ll wait. For me to actually be ready for the next step, and not just done with where I’m at.

I know it like I know I don’t deserve to be here. Like I know that if I try to leave, he’ll hunt me down. Unless I tell him not to, and mean it. And I can’t mean it, can’t give this up. Any of it. Whatever it is. Fuck. I shake my head, unable to do anything more, and leave the doorframe under my own power while my _domine_ -to-be hovers until my goal becomes apparent.

It’s hard to piss half awake, half erect, dripping like Zora’s Domain, and empty as the darkness of space. At least the toilet seat is clean. Calamity, at least there _is_ a toilet seat here. The dorms that wasn’t always the case, and the kinds of places that let violet spooks in without some sort of purchase are disgusting enough to put hair on your hair. I’m fastidious. I like _clean_ , even if it is just a pisser. Walking isn’t as bad after emptying my bladder, though my knees still don’t want to support my weight properly and my nose keeps emptying into my throat, making me cough.

True to his word, the tub is slowly filling with water hot enough to make me into a thin broth, and I stagger to it like I’ve had the night I’m only dreaming of. Strip off the nasty dragon onesie. Slide into the blessedly warm liquid with a sigh. It’s good, and as the tub fills and turns my joints to wobbly spook aspic, I let my hair hang over the edge and watch my master go about his business through my eyelashes. Let my tension melt, float for a while, and then focus. Watch him, and judge him down to the platelets. I need to relax to do it right, and without enough magic to light a candelabra or anywhere to be, I can.

I haven’t had the opportunity to just…observe the specimen in its natural habitat. I haven’t taken the time in years. I used to be able to tell what kind of mood Eran was in with a glance, what he had for breakfast in the blink of an eye. It was simpler, then, not really having any desires of my own to interfere, but I haven’t lost the ability to do it. Just the inclination. Call me pessimistic, but fuck, despite all the good some individual people can do, as a group they really, really suck. The desire to watch him isn’t the only desire he’s awoken in me, but it is the newest and therefore the most appealing.

I’ll probably have to get in some wrist aerobics afterward, but I can do that while I poke my prostate with my fingers so he’ll be able to give me a more satisfying prodding later. Hurray for multitasking masturbation. For now, I look, and let myself see.

Lord Lincoln is green and gold and glowing. Hearty halos shimmer with the moisture of his shower lingering in the air, thick with anticipatory frustration. His ankle pains him, and he jarred his hip yesterday, probably in the fall. The rest of his aches have faded with sleep, healed with the reserves his quality of life affords him. If I linger on the physicality of his presence, I’m definitely not going to maintain my calm detachment. So, enough. Move on.

From the physical to the emotional, the two so closely intertwined they measurably affect each other.  First layer. That’s frustrated anger, cold and calculating, lancing like lightning through the miasma of his concern. It makes the muscles of his jaw and back clench regularly, and if he’s not careful he’ll get a headache from it. His confusion is as palpable as his arousal, and they’re both stronger for every glance he takes in my direction.

Me too, I want to tell him, but he’s not ready to hear it, still stuck in a mire of determined patronizing bluster, unwilling to just let things happen. Shit happens. You can’t stop it, so best to learn from it and adapt to it. Expect it, even. Do what you have to do to survive, because dreams are for the hopeful. If aspirations overlap, go with it. Why else would I be shoving my fingers up my own ass as he reaches out and turns off his shower?

Fuck. Deeper, Kaya. Look deeper. See?

The current mood is merely the uppermost layer of a breakwater, huge and solid but easily dispersed, especially for a Sheik with any kind of ability at all. But that wouldn’t help beyond the immediate situation and literally getting his rocks off. The pain, smaller but scattered further from his core, is almost obscuring the thick, murky sorrows that threatens to consume him whole. He really…wants people to be happy. Content. And they aren’t. He takes that personal, the tit. He couldn’t care less about gratitude, and that somehow transmutes into a tremendous drive.

The foundations of sand may shift and bend beneath the waves, but they keep all the frustrations and unfairness of the world from disturbing his core. Keep him looking up and moving forward. Golden glory, but not of Hylia’s Grace. No. Were he to touch that Timeless Relic, it would shatter, and so would he. Not that most Hylians believe anymore, or pay homage to any but the Divine Keeper. Idiots. I bet I could even name what portion he’d claim. At his essence, where curiosity leads, where fear and hope meet, lies courage. Farore.

I passed Her Trial, twice, skating by on thin ice and desperation. He’s Her’s, though, so if he ever took her Trials, he’d fucking dance. And that’s the difference between us. He’d dance, and I just dodge as much as I can see coming, hoping that it won’t hurt too much when it hits. I’m…tired of hurting. And now I’m distracted, and lose my grip on that calm stillness I need to see with a gasp like I’ve dropped a knife.

For a moment my shoulder feels like it is being skinned and salted, sending a bolt of crazed pain that radiates to my fingertips and down my spine, and then it’s gone, leaving behind just the normal pain of being sick and hungry and confused and horny all at once. Joy. Then I cough, and swallow what comes up, because just like blowing the dime-a-dates in the toilet at Ikana Bar there’s no good place for me to spit.

“…so can I?” Link asks, and since I have no idea what he’s talking about but know - sure as I’m spook - that he has no intention of hurting me on purpose, so it doesn’t really matter. Whatever he wants is fine.

“Yeah.” I agree, and deliberately relax. Trust him to not…to not. To just…not be everything everyone’s taught me about guys like him. Fighting back a lifetime of experience with a breath and a leap of faith. Maybe courage is catching, or maybe Nayru’s intuition is acting up. She hasn’t called in all Her dues, yet.

I’m not expecting him to kneel next to the tub and wash my hair. Goddess it’s about the strangest fucking thing he’s done and I have no idea if I like it or not. There’s a puzzle here and none of the pieces are even the same size, let alone match. I promised Nayru I’d be nicer to him, but can’t decide if the shivers are from his hands massaging my scalp, my fever, the unexpected intimacy, or wanting him to touch more of me. I know it’s not the water - clear and clean and steaming - clouding my vision and my judgement.

“Rinse.” He tells me, letting go so I can dunk my head as soon as he’s done. Lifting my hair from the water to drip on his towel and the floor once I’m up again. I can’t keep my heart from racing, can’t see him, can’t help but wonder if I should be braiding it while he’s distracted. Yeah, a braid makes it easier to grab, sure, but more difficult to pull out of my head when I’m on my knees. I have to remind myself that he hasn’t hurt me yet. My bruises, physical and not, are my own damn fault. I stay in the tub, eyes forward, and wait.

I hear him moving around, shuffling, and catch a glimpse of his hair as he sits against the ceramic side and starts to comb. From the bottom, with small, even strokes and a wide toothed comb that Senza recommended along with the shampoo and conditioner. Mint scented. Weirdest fucking shit, ever.

“How d’you know how to handle long hair?” He’s never had his past his razor-jawline, and Tetra’s had handmaids, chambermaids, and stylists to do it since she was biting ankles. There’s no need for him to learn, and definitely no reason for him to be as practiced as he is. He doesn’t yank or tug or pull at all, even though there are snarls and knots as he sections off the first part and moves to the next.

“I…my mother.” He says, and I’ve probably put my foot in it now. I asked though, so I’d better fucking listen. Maybe he’ll learn how from observation, but I’m not going to hold my breath even if I could breathe through my nose. “She had trouble with fine motor skills once her M.S. got bad. I couldn’t do much for her, but I could do her hair. So I did.” He explains, tension as thick as the ghosts, though I haven’t seen any that I’d be comfortable calling his mother. I haven’t been to even a quarter of the manor house, either. Place is bigger than any of the Three’s dragons.

“Oh.” Yeah, I’ve put my foot in it alright. Just not the pile I anticipated. I know, viscerally, what it’s like to watch someone you love die, slowly and in pain, unable to help. Unable to do anything but watch. Like being a Sheik, it’s both an honor and a responsibility. You don’t look away, or at least, don’t look away first.

“Your hair’s longer than hers was.”  He tells me like it’s nothing. Like I haven’t reminded him of someone he’s lost, like I’m not remembering both my own and others’. Fuck. I might not remember my parents, but I understand what they’re supposed to be like. Keeper’s constant encouragements. The Grand Master’s watchfulness. Teacher’s demands for excellence. Purah’s pride. The other Sheik candidates’ camaraderie. Siblings through the Training Hall. Cousins through Temple. They may not have been blood, but they’re my family.  From the way his hands shake – the cornflower blue edges and lavender reminiscence – she was all of that to him, and more.

“She must have been a fantastic mother.” That she’s dead is as blatant as it is insensitive to say, but I know now where he got at least part of his unbreakable spirit from. The unconditional love of a parent during his formative years planted that seed, and its growing tall and strong even if she’s pushing up daisies.

“She was.” He agrees, and whatever the fuck I’m feeling about him playing with my hair, he seems to get a kick out of it and it’s not hurting me any to let him do it. If it wasn’t for the rest of my discomforts, I might even be able to get used to it enough to like it. Maybe. But that kind of revelation deserves reciprocation, especially if he’s going to trust me to be honest with him. No hedging, just truth.

“I never knew my parents.” And that doesn’t bother me at all. I’m hardly the only spook to have less than half a clue as to who spawned them. Just a last name giving me a location, like the rest of the _esclavin_ brats. From the way his gently wafting _mer bleue_ concern solidifies sharply and suddenly though, it upsets the Lord Lincoln Fitzherbert von Hestu. I can _feel_ it, where his presence overlaps mine. It doesn’t affect the rhythm and care with which he combs my hair, but I see it. I know. “The Program made sure we had a place to sleep, food enough, top tier medical care, and the best trainers and teachers available.” I try to reassure him. It was harsh, yes, but that’s life.

“We?” The cold bolts of crimson fury are back. Well shit, Kaya. Couldn’t keep your cock holster closed, could you? Still, best he knows about that filthy skeleton in the Royal Family’s closet before he and Princess Tetra actually tie the knot. He should understand just what kind of fuckery he’s signing up for. Do your fucking job, Kaya-bitch. Sit. Speak.

“…there were a dozen of us. At least a dozen I can remember, at the start.” The comb stops moving, which means he’s paying attention. We’ll see if he can pick out the important notes for the quiz after, or if he only hears what he’s expecting. “I was probably four or five at the time, so there may have been more. All boys, since we were for Prince Eran. Tetra’s Claree would be from a pool of girls selected during her fourth or fifth year.”

“As infants?” He whispers, but starts playing with my hair again, and the cornflower coronas are back.

“Mostly.” I shrug. “It’s easier to guarantee the best outcomes that way, and the proper training.”

“It’s barbaric.” He says. Fine then, time to speak the truth.

“Your posh boarding schools and almost all charter school are much worse. At least we were raised by people who all wanted us to be the best we could be, who cared for us, and never once lied about what they were doing. If we were struggling, they didn’t just correct us, they took the time to find out why. Taught us to discriminate between reality and the delusions most people spend their lives living. I’m almost entirely certain that Linebeck Academy teaches that trickle-down economics are good for everyone, and that Gormon College still segregates their students by sex so students don’t get distracted from their studies thinking about fucking, for instance.” Lies upon lies upon lies. The only truth present is that it takes constant rebuttal of clear evidence and factual, verifiable statistics for the people who benefit from those lies to stay in power.

If I’d gone to either of those schools, I’d probably be dead. Spook and all. But as a Hylian, I’d be just as brainwashed as the rest. I guess what I’m feeling is gratitude, but I’ve swallowed it dry and on an empty stomach.

“Still, not knowing who your parents are isn’t right.” He insists, changing the path of conversation back to something a little less personal. Fine then. We’re both raw, I’ve pushed that enough for now. I’ll learn his lines better, eventually, but I think I have space for one more shove.

“I had people who were there for me, who loved me.” I return. “Knowing both of your parents, can you say the same?” Or not. Fuck, Kaya. When will you learn when to _shut up_?

I’m not really surprised when he gets up off the floor next to the tub and leaves the room.

I’m also not dumb enough to chase him, and try to placate him with petty niceties. That’s almost as bad as lying. It tells him his comfort is more important than the truth. As Hawa would say, ain’t that a bitch.

He needs to think about it on his own.

The water’s gone cold, but I stay in it anyway. I need to think about it on my own, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have stuck with reading this fanfiction to this point, despite the awful summary to get you started! Like most of my writing, once the muses have me in their clutches, it just erupts all over the page and then leaves me to do the dirty work of editing. I'll continue updating around every two weeks as best I can. <3


	12. Chewing the Fat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a nice evening in, spending time with friends...right? Link's P.O.V.

“...two-thirds of both the House of Commons and the House of Lords, with two-thirds of the Senate in agreement, to ratify any proposed amendments to the constitution with or without the agreement of the current Monarch.” Tetra tells me.

“Why is this even part of the constitution?” I grumble.  It should be part of the Bill of Rights, or at least the Sheikah Act. Or one of the Treaties. Something less…dehumanizing.

“It was deemed necessary by the Grand Master at the time.”  She sighs. “Grand Master Impa already has a private members bill in process with the legislative assembly to propose a number of changes, but it’s facing some serious opposition. First, there are very few citizens who have any interest in what, to them, in a minor clause that doesn’t affect how they live their lives. Second, as Sheik are not considered citizens themselves, they have no voting rights. Thirdly, there are a number of traditionalist factions that dislike anything that is either a direct challenge to what they consider the natural order of things.  Ever since the election in the south, those factions are gaining support.  To them, the Sheik are seen as the last line of defense for the Royal family, rather than trusted advisors.”

“The…what did the Grand Master call it? The second purpose.” I remember the description, but I don’t remember the word, and it’s not like there are any Hylian-Sheikan dictionaries. I’ve looked.

“ _Riparo_. The Shield. My father’s first Sheik fulfilled that purpose, and he’s the only one really in the public spheres. Even his current Sheik isn’t noticed as being present.”  She growls, frustrated and angry. Not at me, thank goodness, but angry enough that it’s all I can hear in her voice.

“Disposable.” I snarl. I’m not angry at her, either. Fortunately, she knows it. I’m not even angry at Kaya, though he deliberately provoked me instead of comforted me like I expected. That’s why I called Tetra instead of Mako or Nudge. They’d give me the explanation, but not their opinions. Malon would give me comfort, but not understand why comfort alone isn’t what I want.

“Yes.” She agrees, sympathizing. “Unfortunately.” My jaw hurts, and I realize that I’m clenching it hard enough that I can hear my teeth grinding. Then Sheik coughs, distracting me, and I can’t quite find the anger again. I’ve spent so long building it up into a nice, blind rage, and now it’s just gone along with most of my muscle strain.

“Thanks, love.” I exhale the last of my tension so I can give her my affection, and she hums her appreciation.

“Anytime. What are you doing this evening?” She asks.

“Aside from e-mailling Impa for a copy of that bill? Probably studying, but I can be convinced into some sort of distraction for a few hours.” I admit. A distraction would be nice, especially if I can leave Sheik to write and study. Hopefully he’ll go to bed early. Then I just have to not molest him while he’s sleeping, instead of resist his advances on top of the calling the renewed spell work sends out. Constantly. I can manage the second easily, but the first is the reason I’m pacing in my bedroom instead of sitting with him at the coffee table.  

I _should_ be studying while he uses my slate to write his essays, but I can’t focus. The Hateno Codices don’t make any more sense today than they did yesterday, and not for the first time I wonder if I shouldn’t change my Major before declaring a Minor. I know I’m procrastinating working on them, and having Sheik using my slate for his essay helps. I can’t look up cat videos or listen to musicals, which means I’m getting smaller tasks done instead. His slate is on the way to Zuko’s, but he wasn’t optimistic about his chances at recovering anything worth salvaging, and has his own reports to finish before he can even try touching the pieces of Sheik’s slate. I can’t exactly send it to a normal repair place without having to answer questions I don’t want to be asked, and so Zuko’s my best option even if he’s just the one to send it out to a repair shop.

“Would you care to join us for supper? Malon’s heading back home on the first flight out of Daphnes International tomorrow, so it would be a nice send off.” My fiancée inquires, and seeing Malon is always a good distraction.

“Who all will be there?” If it’s just a small gathering of Tetra’s entourage, then it would be nice. If it’s to be an evening of pandering to the Court and being shown around like a prize stud, I’d rather not. I’ve seen some of the banners and memorabilia already being hawked online to commemorate our engagement, and it’s gaudy and ugly, but very traditional. Hilda and Ravio had nearly the same style for their engagement, and their wedding memorabilia turned out to be acceptable, if impractical.

“Malon, of course.” Tetra teases. “Niko, Gonzo, myself, and Claree so far.” A very small gathering, then.

“Any reporters?” I really don’t want to have my every word and action dissected for public consumption.

“Just dodge the usual paparazzi. If you use the west gate, they were cleared out this morning. Will you be joining us?” She asks, and I can hear how much she wants me to. I can also hear Sheik sniffing in the other room before he blows his nose. Wetly.

“I will, but Sheik is staying here. He’s got a cold, and I don’t want it to get worse.” Plus, as much as I don’t want him to leave, being stuck in the same space as anyone else for days on end is driving me to distraction. He should have his own suite of rooms, but I don’t know how he’d take the suggestion and am afraid to ask. A yes or a no could both go horribly amiss.

“That’s fine. Have Telma make him some of her super cucco soup. I’ll send a car though, since I don’t want you driving alone.”

“It’s only an hour.” I protest, having driven to the Royal complex hundreds of times. “An hour and ten minutes if the traffic is bad.”

“You’ve fought a Hinox and killed a Gohma nearly the size of your old Epona in the last four days. I’d be more comfortable for someone being there with you, and since your Sheik is indisposed, a driver is both the easiest and the most cost effective. Unless you’d prefer a helicopter?”

When put like that, I can’t say no. Or I could, but I want to go, she wants me there, and I refuse to place any further burden on Sheik until he’s feeling better and just…need to get away from him for a while. Which makes me feel guilty. Given those factors, a driver is the best option.

“No. No helicopters.” I grumble. “A driver would be appreciated.” At least there are tinted windows.

“I’ll have one sent.” She laughs. “See you when you get here, sweetie. Wear something nice.”

“I will.” I promise. “See you soon.”

Disconnecting, I close my copy of the Codices and pick up my Psychology textbook. It’s not nearly as involved, and is clearly laid out, with review questions and a quiz at the end of each chapter. I should be able to make it through reviewing most of chapter four before I need to change, but set an alarm anyway. I’m still clean, but sweatpants and a long sleeved t-shirt are not appropriate dining attire, no matter how casual and small the gathering.

I’m just finished with the chapter questions on circadian rhythms shared among mammalian peoples when the alarm goes off, making Sheik jump with a startled yelp.

“Sorry.” I apologize, and turn off the buzzer. It’s a different alarm from the one I use to wake up, that one more loud and dissonant than anything else. The sound clip of a giant lizard set on smashing all of Zora’s Domain to bits sounds a little bit too close to the Hinox’s frustrated roaring for even my comfort, but I forgot about it. I’ll have to change it later, but for now I need to get dressed.

“Calamity, Link, I’m not…wearing my panic pants! Warn a guy, would you? I nearly bricked it.”  Sheik grumbles, turning his vibrant red eyes my way and stopping the steady clicking that’s part of the reason I wasn’t paying attention to the time. The rhythm of his presence is soothing, and helps me concentrate as long as he isn’t talking. His voice isn’t bad, just his word choices. They make me think, and I really don’t want to.

“Sorry, Sheik. I forgot.” I apologize again, and close my text. I’ll bring it with me on the drive over for something to do, since I won’t need to pay attention to the road.

“What time is it, anyway?” He asks, turning back to one of the four books he has open for his essay.

“Almost five, my ride should be here in twenty minutes, so I need to get dressed.” Maybe the navy pinstripe suit with the gold threads. Tetra says it brings out my eyes and accentuates the gold in my hair.

“You really suck at…this whole communication thing.” He tells me, sniffling, then reaching for another tissue to go with the first two boxes worth he’s been through today. “Where are we going, how are we getting there, why didn’t you inform me earlier, and what the entire fuck? Seriously.”

“We are not going anywhere. You’re sick. You’re staying here. I’m going to go have supper with Tetra and Malon. Tetra sent a car, and you’re not my mother.”

“I’m to be your Sheik.” He tries to snarl, which is ruined when he starts coughing, but he tries to talk around it anyway. “You’re…supposed to…to take me…with you.” The spasms turn into something near a retch because he forced it, making me shudder.

“You’re sick. I’m as safe as I can be with a Princess of the Blood and one of the highest ranking Duchesses in the Royal Complex.” I reason, reaching to rub his back through his still unbound hair. He knocks my hand away.

“Don’t fucking…touch me. If you’re going to just keep playing at making it…official, save us both the trouble and fucking stop…using me to assuage your…conscience. One set of…Cias and Lanas…fuck, their pet S.A.G.E.S.…is enough…already.” He glares, still coughing, nose almost as red as his eyes.

“I’m not using you.” How can he think that? I…yes, we had sex, but I thought it was just that. He said it was just that. Utterly fantastic sex, but just sex.

“Really?” One eyebrow goes up, emphasizing the bright red tattoo that covers almost half his face. “You know not making a decision is a…decision in and of itself, right? How long do you plan on...stringing me…along like a damn puppet? I’m not your Sheik yet, not even your whore. If you’d just _choose_ already…this fucking _yearning_ would let me…” This coughing fit is the worst one yet, and leaves him gasping and limp in the plush high-back chair. Once I’m sure he’s recovering and can hear me over his own breathing, I take the time that I should have taken for him this afternoon after our argument instead of ignoring him by studying.

I still need to study, do my readings and such, but I have time for that and I’m beginning to realize I might not with him.

“I want you to be my Sheik. I want you to be afforded all the recognition such a position is entitled to, and to know that I will not turn you away. You know how I feel about everything else in that regard, but I haven’t been clear.”  I manage to keep my voice steady throughout, but it cracks and cracks hard before I can start in on the second part. The important part. He’s right, I suck at communicating. I clear my throat, and wonder at his patience. “Once we’re both done with our Reading Week assignments, I’ve had a chance to talk to Impa, shown you the manor, you’ve got your own suite, and are feeling better, I’ll do it.”

“Do me.” He snorts. Then coughs.

“Must you be so crude?” I wince, and yes, that’s undeniably part of the process, but not all of it. I didn’t know that the yearning went both ways, though. Knowing that he’s been as frustrated as I’ve been doesn't help.

“Just telling it…like I see it, Lord Prude.” He quips. I never thought I’d miss being called a spoon. I want to spoon. Wrap my arms around him and just hold on, listening to him breathe. Most of that’s the siren song of the _esclavin_ spell work eclipsing his own melody, but not all. Before the argument, despite being covered in mucus, this morning was nice.  I liked it. I want more mornings like that.

“Fine.” I sigh. “This is your official notice, then. School work first, then your health, and only then will we complete the bond.”

“So romantic.” He sneers. “Don’t you need to get dressed?”

“I do.” I admit. Ten minutes, provided the driver didn’t get stuck in traffic anywhere. I kind of hope he did.

“So get dressed.” The bitterness of his dismissal sits on the back of my tongue like bile, but I really am running out of time, and I haven’t been considerate of his feelings on the matter, just my own.

I thought I was doing better, but changing my habits is harder than just thinking about it.  I have to do it, too. There’s no bitter coating I can stick on my mind like Telma put on my nails to get me to stop biting them, so instead I’ll need to think of some sort of incentive beyond wanting him to like me that will help me be a better master. Something that isn’t detrimental to the other relationships I have, the majority of which I need to dress for, and quickly.

The navy pinstripe suit goes on over my t-shirt because I don’t have time to find an appropriate dress shirt and tie to go with it, but I do wear my nice Maiamai leather low boots. Mostly to cover mismatched socks, but no one besides myself knows that. Tetra’s driver pulls up to the front door at exactly twenty after five, right on time, and lets me into the back with my textbook before pulling out of the drive and onto the highway.

I finish the chapter on types of consciousness and am on the second last review question for the chapter on conditional learning when we pass the second security check-point that requires identification for passengers as well as the car and driver. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been thinking about my new roommate constantly, perhaps it's just because I’m bored and need a distraction, but I notice that a lot of the security staff are at least partially Sheikah.  They move with the same grace that Sheik himself does, but don’t speak nearly as much, if at all. Most of them don’t utter a sound.

The two that sign me in past the third check-point are around his age, just a little older than I am, and I can’t help but wonder if this is what happens to the other children that aren’t selected as the Sheik. It would make sense, and now I’m curious.

“Do either of you remember a Sheik named Kaya? Kaya Lurelin?” I ask as I’m patted down. The one at the station typing my arrival on his slate looks at me and blinks.

“We do not speak of those who commit treason lightly, Lord Korokshire.” The one patting me down says.

“Treason?” The word squeaks out before I can stop it, one of the many reasons I have no desire to follow in my father’s footsteps and enter into politics professionally.

“The individual in question did not uphold the ultimate duty of a Sheik. He failed to prevent the death of both his master and the future monarch, making him a traitor to his country and an accessory to murder in the eyes of the law.” The one at the station says, eyes back on his screen.

“He was twelve!” I protest, and the one patting me down laughs.

“So were we, Lord Korokshire. Regan did not mean that we hold Kaya responsible, only that, legally, unless he is pardoned, he is a criminal.”

“Tye is correct. Had he not disappeared when he did, he would have been tried, most likely as an adult, by those seeking someone to blame.” Regan says, still not looking at me.

“Would he be tried now?” I can feel the blood draining from my face. Regicide is a life sentence, and only because the death penalty was abolished twenty years before slavery was.

“No. Not unless someone with a lot of money, a long memory, and a spectacular grudge or homicidal levels of bigotry found him and bothered to prosecute with an unsympathetic judge.” Tye assures as he straightens and looks me in the eye for the first time. “The Grand Master has kept us informed.”

“Oh. Well. That’s good.” I stammer. His gaze is just as unsettling as Sh…Kaya’s was at first.

“Rest assured that, should you hurt him, we know where you live.” Regan grins brightly.

“Kaya is like a brother to us both.” Tye nods.

“To our entire squadron.” Regan agrees.

“Do you all work together? Here?” I ask the question I probably should have started with, but I wouldn’t know what I do now if I had. Unfortunately, what I know now leaves me with more questions than I have time to ask, let alone hear the answers to.

“Where else would we go?” Tye blinks.

“Of course. We are for the Royal Family. It is an honor to serve.” Regan says. I don’t have the heart to argue. I also don’t have the time.

“Do you require an escort, Lord Korokshire?” Tye asks.

“Unless the layout’s changed in the last month, I should be fine.” I shake my head, and prove it by taking firm, brisk strides towards Tetra’s suites. The way hasn’t changed in years, though there has been a paint-job in the last decade. Aside from the superficial, nothing here has changed in generations, just my perception of it, and it’s like everything is new again. Like I’m here for the first time ever instead of just the first time this week.

The closer I get to Tetra’s suites, the more things actually have changed, and not just technologically. The hum of electricity overlaps with older magic into a harmonious chorus broken by the sounds of people talking softly and moving around. That’s different from the older parts, because there no one talks unless directly addressed in a way that requires a verbal response, and no one works when anyone of rank is close by. They stop, bow, and stay down until I’ve passed.

Even Claree, who I now know is supposed to tell Tetra of what she sees, is still and quiet, though not mute. A word here, a gesture there. She does not eat with Niko, Gonzo, Malon, Tetra and I, but stands at Tetra’s side and serves the table as she has since she became a part of Tetra’s entourage. I didn’t think to question it until now, and I’m not sure what question I should be asking, if there even is one to ask.

“You’re awfully gloomy tonight, Link.” Malon prods, startling me. “I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve said.”

“I haven’t. I’ve been thinking. Sorry, May.” I apologize. She’s leaving tomorrow morning, and I haven’t spoken a word to her.

“Don’t think too hard, Reading week is supposed to be a break!” Niko protests.

“Not about school stuff, Niko.” I shake my head. “It’s been a long day and a busy week.”

“A Hinox and a Gohma already, and the week’s not over.” Gonzo reminds me, making me want to put my face in the bowl of lobster bisque just so I don’t have to talk about it.

“Not to mention an engagement.” Tetra laughs.

“You did it out of step, fairy boy.” Malon teases. “It’s supposed to go fight the monster, win the girl, live happily ever after.”

“I’ve done two of the three…” I affirm. “…and the happily ever after isn’t far off.” Malon grins at me, and Tetra leans over to kiss me breathless while Niko chokes and Gonzo finishes his bisque. Perhaps sensing my disquiet, they steer the conversation to more mundane topics. What movies to see, books to read, events to attend, and how each will affect public perception of both Tetra and I. That’s something I’m going to have to continue to be aware of now for the rest of my life, and as part of her entourage, it will affect them as well.

A small price to pay, really, for how happy I am just spending time with my friends. I even get to marry my best friend in a couple years. It really is a happily ever after.

The bisque is followed by a barley and grilled pork salad that cleans my palate and refreshes me in a way that the caffeine I’ve been relying on for classes just can’t. I haven’t gone to the gym or the range since I met Kaya, so I decline the salted caramel pudding that’s offered for dessert, but take the tea and listen to the conversation more than I participate in it. Niko’s a fan of dramas and comedies, while Gonzo prefers science fiction. Malon likes historical re-enactments and romance. Tetra, like me, watches the news and not much else, though we can both sing along to almost every musical ever written.

I know I surprised Sheik by knowing the lines that followed the ones he quoted at me from _The Path of a Hero_ , but it’s the basis for three major musicals, six operas, and a dozen or more plays. The poetry is fantastic, if fantastical. Having fought a Hinox and seen a Gohma close up, there’s no way anyone would speak like that, even with editing to align what they said in the epic form. I liked the growl in his voice when he claimed me, and hope that my response pleased him as well. I think it did, but I really have no idea what he likes, what he wants, or how to please him. How to please any man.

My blood rushes to my face and I nearly choke on my tea as I realize I’m going to need to. Soon.

“You okay, fairy boy?” Malon drawls. “Can you breathe?”

“I…how do you give good oral sex to a man?” I’m confident enough with the anal – he came twice – but I’ve never even thought about how to go about anything else before.

“Holy Hylia, Link!” Niko protests, face as red as mine probably is, and Tetra laughs hard enough that she has to put down her coffee or risk spilling it.

“That’s hardly pertinent to the conversation.” Gonzo coughs into his cup, and uses it to hide his snickering.

“Just remember what you like, and listen to him. He’ll tell you whether he means to or not.” Malon grins. “I still want pictures.”

“I’m sure you do. I’ll just have to endure the real thing.” Tetra sighs mournfully.

“Endure, my ass.” Gonzo snorts.

“The Sheik’s ass, actually. Link doesn’t really have an off button.” Malon smirks.

“Can we please talk about something else?” Niko whimpers. “I’m getting flashbacks.”

“Flashbacks? _Flashbacks?_ When…” Malon growls, grabbing Niko’s shirt. “…was there anything juicy enough for flashbacks?!”

“Nothing happened!” I protest to keep Niko from passing out.

“Bullshit.” Malon can be scary when she wants. She wants. I swallow.

“…I might have been fingering him when Niko walked in on us.” If he’d been even two minutes later, I probably would have had to pay for his therapy. From the silence in the room following my statement, there may be the Dark Realm to pay anyway. Any frustration I may have felt at the time has faded into embarrassment and shame since. I’m not used to feeling either. I’m almost as uncomfortable now as I was then, but for entirely different reasons.

“That’s…awfully fast. Was he pressuring you?” Gonzo’s tone changes abruptly as he stops playing with the last of the caramel sauce on his plate and turns to face me. “If he is, you don’t have to put up with that kind of behavior. Send him back home.”

There are a lot of things I could say in response, most of them are inappropriate and coming from the ugly place inside of me that wants to hurt and rip and tear into anyone or anything that hurts me or my friends. But Gonzo is my friend, and Kaya isn’t. Not yet, at least. Not quite.

“He wasn’t.” I say instead, because it’s true. He wanted me and wasn’t being at all subtle about it. I wasn’t resisting because I didn’t want to. So he wasn’t. He was just being truthful and honest and allowing me to do the same. It’s everything else that’s making me doubt myself.

“Either way, pictures. I want them. Send some to me.” Malon insists.

“If he doesn’t send you some, I will, babe.” Tetra assures our mutual girlfriend with a wave of her hand. “In the interest of preserving the peace.” She teases.

“I’ll hold you to that.” Malon agrees. “Just like I’m going to hold you to the promise of an early night so I can catch my flight.”

“Of course. Please, avail yourself of the baths and a bed. I’ll speak with you in the morning.” Tetra smiles.

“Good night, Malon.” Gonzo nods.

“Sweet dreams!” Niko pipes up.

“Night, May. I’ll send pictures, I promise.” I cross my heart like we used to when we were in elementary school.

“Don’t do anyone I wouldn’t do!” Her departing sally is accompanied by wiggling eyebrows and laughter.

“I too, should be heading home.” Gonzo stands and bows to Tetra.

“Safe travels.” She rises to clasp his arm.

“Yes, your Highness.” He nods. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.” She agrees.

“I need to study.” Niko moans.

“Text me when you’re home safe, please.” The dismissal is gracious, as I’ve come to expect from Tetra at her best.

“Will do!” Niko is as graceless as ever. I hope he never changes. We wave farewell as I move to stand next to my fiancée and Claree summons the servers to clear the dining room. The walk to Tetra’s bedchamber isn’t far, and I take the time to kiss her goodnight and really mean it outside the door. Like I’ve done a hundred times before, and hopefully get to do a hundred thousand times more. There really isn’t much of an invitation in her eyes or in her arms beyond kissing, and, being a gentleman, I leave it at that.

Despite the normalcy of the day, the return to the patterns and schedule I’m used to, I’m tired. Tired enough that I fall asleep to the soft hum of tires on pavement and the low purr of a V12 engine before I can even think of picking up my textbook again. Luckily, my phone rings ten minutes out and wakes me so the driver doesn’t have to. It’s Telma, and so I answer on the fifth ring.

“Hello?” I slur, rubbing at my eyes to get some of the grit out.

“Good evening, my lord. It would be good to know when you intend to return.” Formal language, echoing words. A larger room then, with an audience.

“I’m just passing Ebora Hills. I should be there soon. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, hon.” Telma hums, relaxing. “The Deputy-Commissioner just needs Mr. Lurelin’s signature to finish some paperwork.”

“Sheik’s not with me, he’s there. He’s sick.” I yawn. “I didn’t want him to get sicker.” If she’s referring to her husband by his title, there has to be either other officers she doesn’t know or someone else in the room.

“Oh. Is he in your suite?” She asks. I hear three sets of footsteps moving. That’s one more than I expected, so there is someone else with them. Someone unknown.

“He should be.” There’s no way he could have finished two essays in a day, even if he’s been preparing for them in advance.            

“Thank you for your cooperation, Lord Korokshire.” Renado says, loud enough for me to hear clearly.

“See you soon.” Eight minutes. Most of them are spent along the driveway from the front gates wishing the driver would go faster and not wanting him to spin out or crash if he does. I can tell that the lights in the parlor are on two minutes out. Telma calls again when I’m close enough that I can see her moving behind the curtains. I answer on the first ring.

“Can you think of anywhere else he might be?” She asks before I can open my mouth.

“You checked my suite?” I ask, not sure how I feel about strangers wandering through while I’m not there. Friends and staff are fine, as are any medical or emergency personnel, but I have issues with paparazzi and reporters. More issues since taking Sheik to that diner, but that’s not his fault.

“The entirety of the first and second floors, my lord, as well as the garage and carriage house.”

“The library?”

“Shad’s checking now.”

“The solarium?”

“We’re searching, my lord.” Telma grumbles. “None of his clothing is missing and his phone is still here, so he can’t have gone far.”

“I’m home.” I mutter as the driver pulls up. “I’ll help you look.”

“Thank you, hon.” Telma sighs, hanging up. The car comes to a stop and I don’t wait for the door to open, but get out myself. Textbook under my arm, phone in hand, I thump the top to let the driver know he’s finished his job.

I can hear the sharp clack of wood on wood over the snick of Telma opening to door for me, and wave at her before turning to follow the irregular sound. It’s joined by the crunch and grind of gravel, the whisper of dried, frozen grass against fabric, and familiar grunting soon enough. I’ve fought frequently enough with Ashei when the range or salle hasn’t been an option to recognize her voice.

Sheik is absolutely silent aside from the thwack of his stave against hers, even though he notices me first and dances back to break the rhythm of their formal sparing.

“Renado wants you in the main house half an hour ago.” I tell him, and his head tilts to the side. “The Deputy-Commissioner.” I clarify. “Something about signing some forms.”

“Ah, darn it. Ye’d best be goin’ then.” Ashei’s brogue is thick with heavy, controlled breaths. Not panting, but deep enough that I know they’ve been at this for some time. Sheik scampers off without further comment, silent as the wind, while I wait for my head of security to cool down and walk with her back home.

Any explanations can wait until they’re both present. Neither of them is free until I’ve had one.


	13. Utterly Hooped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sheik's P.O.V. picking up right after where chapter 12 left off in where someone ends up being a little better socialized....but only a little.

If I didn’t know he’s a boxers man, I’d think someone’d pinched Lord Prude’s nut-sack with an atomic panty twist and left the lace all tangled with the shrubbery. Luckily, he’s sticking by Ms. Risoka and avoiding me, letting me rush back to the manor house for whatever the Deputy-Commissioner wants with me. Unluckily, my antihistamine’s wearing off and the booster Dr. Borville gave me is done like the dinner I haven’t eaten. I don’t want to. The thought alone makes me nauseous, and my stomach’s cramping fit to match my arm.

So yeah, the Deputy-Commissioner, his two grunts, and a pompous asshat with a suit that screams expensive lawyer are going to have to just deal with my pale, sick, sweaty and shaking self. I don’t give two fucks if they like it, it’s what they’re getting, or they can come back tomorrow. Or never. That’d be peachy fucking keen.

“Deputy-Commissioner.” I nod, and manage not to either cough or sniffle while doing it. “You needed me?” I may look like the Dark Realm, but no spook is stupid enough to be rude to any member of the A.R.G. unless they’re suicidal. I’m not, at least not actively. Not right now. Nurse Mija had that much right.

“Mr. Lurelin.” The half-spook I met at Temple while Officer Land-Whale was seeing how many sausage fingers he could cram into me says, and I know from his presence and discomforted pear-yellow hues exactly what this is about. “I have the paperwork here to file assault charges against Officer Kohga. Please review them, and if they appear to be in order, sign on page eight in the indicated sections, and again on page ten to confirm.”

Nailed it.

Fuck.

The weight of expectation is heavier than the envelope of forms the Officer on my right hands me, and reading it is as dry as eating it would be. The words get stuck in my throat. I choke them down anyway. I can feel their eyes on me as mine scan the standardized forms and fill in the blanks. No, I haven’t seen a physician regarding the assault. No, I haven’t required time off work. No, I don’t want to speak with a counsellor. Yes, I understand that filing a false statement is perjury.

Sign on the dotted line with two witnesses present, legal counsel optional. I have to hand it to the Deputy-Commissioner though, he’s got his bases covered. Of course, it’s his job, so rather than being impressed I’m simply reassured. It’s easier to jump through hoops when they’re lined up and spaced appropriately, and these ones aren’t even on fire.

Fire is more where I stand with Lord Lincoln, who joins the Officers and expensive lawyer while I’m busy with page nine. It’s where I’ve stood with him from the first, and is shining in his eyes and posture even if he doesn’t say anything. Goddesses damn it all, but I understand at least part of his reluctance to talk, now. He waits for them to clear out of the room and for me to clear out my sinuses before dropping a bowl of yellow liquid in front of me, expectation clear in his posture and that damn set of his perfect jaw.

“Eat.” He growls. At least he’s working on the communication thing. At this point, if he told me to turn myself inside out so he could play cat’s cradle with my entrails, I probably would. Not because I like him, but because just being near him calms the yearning. I’ve been working myself in knots since he stormed out of the bathroom, anyway, so he wouldn’t have to do much. At least the sensitivity of my skin isn’t painful for the first time since he left his suite, just humming with hair-on-end hope. My arm isn’t even cramping any more. The foresight my patron Goddess has bequeathed is silent as the Watchers of Her realm, and I hope it stays that way.

Fucking _hope_. That shit’s dangerous and apparently addictive because even as I’m getting it now I’m craving my next hit and don’t want this one to end. More than food. More than warmth. More than sex, even. Almost more than water. I can live without the first things for a while, if I have hope. If I don’t, well, there’s really no point to the rest.

So I bow my head over the bowl and pick up the spoon and stir, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He doesn’t even so much as move, waiting for me to obey. Cerulean and seafoam, his anger degraded to wisps of amber upset and something I can’t identify without staring beyond the point where it’s awkward. Head down Kaya. Keep it down, all of it, and try to pile at least some of the broth on top.

There are carrots in the broth. Soup. Celery. Onions and garlic and ginger. Noodles the size of my thumb that rise to the surface alongside thick chunks of cucco and the scent of salt and roasted bones. I stir, watching the steam waft like Korokshire’s ghosts and wondering what he’s thinking. I can’t read him properly, yet, and despite my promise to Nayru I’ve done nothing today but upset him even though I’ve watched my tongue like a hawk about to stoop. Hawks can miss. He’s still here. No yelling, no snarling, no flying fists or even flying words. Feeding me.

Good and Gracious Hylia, what does he _want_? He washed my hair this morning and combed it out for me before I used his history with his parents to hurt him. Chase him away, telling myself it was so he’d face that weakness when that was only part of it. The rest was so he’d stop exposing mine. I apologized, he brushed it off and gave me his slate before I even needed to ask. I offered to give him a thank-you wank, he refused.  We studied. Then he left.

Now, my first essay’s done but for a review, and I got five pages into the second before Ms. Risoka demanded an interview. Then the formal spar to test my right to even hope to stand behind Lord Korokshire. All I learned is that I’m desperately out of condition and she could toss my ass on the ground without breaking a sweat, even though I remember the motions and can do them. Sort of. Stick to the mage-craft, Kaya. It’s all you’re decent at aside from spreading your legs, and he’s not interested in testing your flexibility.

Now, this.

As soon as I bring the spoon to my lips he relaxes enough to sit down, which is great because it means he’s no longer looming over me like a fucking dour cloud burst, and awful because it means he’s staring at me as I eat the homemade cucco soup rich with ginger. Half a box of tissues later and still sniffing, full to the point of hiccups, I lift the bowl to drain the last of the broth and try not to barf after.

“Good.” He tells me, faint and damning praise that it is, and reaches for my face. I can’t help flinching back from his hand, too close to my eye and the farm-fresh marking on my skin. He frowns, and pulls his hand back without touching me like he obviously meant to, and I want to tell him that it’s okay. That he can touch me as he likes, when he likes, how he likes. That I’m his.

But I can’t lie. Not knowingly, not and retain my ability to discern the truth. The lore was pretty fucking clear on that before the others started failing. Numar was the best fighter among us, until he broke his leg badly enough they had to amputate. Armes was the smartest before he forgot that smart and wise aren’t the same thing, and tried sabotage Tye’s test scores to keep his ranking instead of studying. Sebasto lied about his laundry, and couldn’t tell which hand Teacher was holding the bead in despite clearly telegraphed motion that none of the rest of us received after. Tye lied to try and take responsibility for it, and couldn’t tell anymore, either. He told me that the colors had disappeared while packing his bag.

Regan and his brother Yeran were just gone one day. Cloyne was pulled from geography kicking and shouting when I was ten, leaving five of us for Eran to choose from. Then four. Then three. I don’t know what happened to Rozel, though every once in a while Zuta sends me letters through _bedstemor_ Purah from Toronbo Resort where he dances for a living. At least one of us managed to follow our dreams.

“Come to bed.” My lord commands.

“Are you going to…” I start to ask, wondering if I’ll need the shower.

“No.” He refuses. Again. Fine then. Until he says he will, I won’t bother making myself presentable for him. I’ve got food and a place to sleep, so I don’t need to do it for the tricks at Ikana Bar, either.  Kahti doesn’t care. Not that I’ll see him again now that I’m…whatever this is. Fuck, I may wind up using the shower to be my own best friend at this point, and it’s only been three days since I’ve had my asshole stretched. Usually I manage a week, at the very least, before the craving becomes a problem.

“What about…” This time, it’s my own body that denies me my words, and I breathe heavily to keep from sneezing on him again, gasping like a Zora in the Gerudo highlands until I can get a tissue in front of my mucus factory. From the face he pulls, it sounds twice as unpleasant to him as it does to me when I fill that tissue, three more, and start on the next. With my brains in hand, sinuses clear for the moment, I try again. “What about…”

“No, Sheik.” He barks, then sighs. “You’re sick.”

“If we sleep in the same bed you’ll be just as exposed.” I reason. Nayru knows he’s already been in close contact to whatever bug has me in its grip.

“That’s not…” He stops and turns a furious red, from the tips of his delicately pointed ears all the way down his collar. He has more courage than I’ll ever know, too, because he pushes through his embarrassment like it’s the wet tissues in my hand. “That’s not why I’m concerned.”

“Oh?” That’s interesting. Both in the words and in the way his body reacts with a boner that a twelve year old and a sixty year old could only dream of. Crimson lust. Flares of arousal. I couldn’t keep the grin off my face even if it’s the one thing that’ll get me into the Sacred Realm. He wants me. His morals are just a little too staunch for him to allow himself to act. I can deal with that, now that I know. Seeing is believing, and with the way he’s straining his zipper, there’s a lot of belief to take in.

But he does want me. That’s…reassuring, if not mollifying.

“You’re sick.”  He lists, actually counting the tally against bending me over the table on his fingers. “You’re emotional. We don’t know each other that well. I have a ton of homework to do. We need to get you set up and comfortable in your own space. While I think you’re very pretty, you’re the skinniest person I’ve seen outside of poverty porn commercials, and I’d like to fix that. And…and I want to make it good for you. To satisfy you completely. And I don’t know how. Not yet. But I will. If…if you still want me to. If you’re going to give your life to me, I want to give you pleasure in return. It’s the least I can do.”

It’s literally the most I’ve heard him say in one go, and I spent a significant portion of Moonsday trapped in a tiny dark box with him. He’s not that talkative, and is an absolute Darknut when it comes to communicating his thoughts and feelings. I know from the Hinox he’s an adrenaline junkie with a decent hold on the habit, but not what he does to take the edge off. Fuck, if I can get two words of his schedule from him I count myself lucky. It’s going to make being his Sheik…interesting. In the way that natural disasters are interesting.

The masochistic side of me can’t wait.

The realistic part of me knows that I just have to be patient, and that sleep is the best thing for both of us right now.  He’s tired. I’m sick. It’s not that late, but late enough.

“Okay. Sure. Fine.” I give in, and that gets his head snapping up to stare at me like a sideshow barker’s main draw, the fucking spoon. Not that sharp, kind of bent, a bit of a tool, spoon works even better than prude. I was right the first time around.  “I’m going to sleep.”

Lady Mavis, Sir Swiftblade, and a ghost that’s no more than light and the lingering scent of rosemary and citrus wait on the second floor landing with the blond boy who showed me where the chapel was. Colin, I believe.

“Sheik!” He lights up as I make the fourth step creak beneath my weight and have a moment of heart-stopping fear. Having fallen in this area, with the work crews still pulling up bits and pieces from the elevator shaft, I’m suspicious of the apparent stability beneath my feet. Sue me. Still, best not to alarm the local children even if my stomach is in knots, at least not while Link is present. He puts his hand on the small of my back and pushes as he keeps moving upwards, making me move with him.

“Hey, Colin. Shouldn’t you be in bed?” He asks, letting go and crouching at the landing to talk to the boy.

“I had a bad dream yesterday.”

“Oh?” Link prompts, and sits down in the middle of the hall to listen to the little Human talk about his nightmares. Induced by the Gohma, and some of the webbing and broken pieces the workers have been bringing up, I could only wish mine were half as tame as his. He is badly frightened though, that’s as plain to see as the fucking Eye on my face, and the more he focusses on the things that scare him, the more terrified he becomes, burrowing against Link’s chest like a barnacle.

I should leave them here and go to bed while my nose is at least mostly clear. Instead, I lean against the wall and use it as a support to drop down on Colin’s other side and let him feel the heat, the weight, of someone bigger and stronger and more experienced against his back, shielding him from both his own fearful imaginings and from seeing the taped off elevator doors.

“Then the ambalance took Sheik and neither of you came back all day!” He wails, and fuck if I know how he’s gotten so attached so fast, but I have my suspicions. Like Link – who he obviously idolizes – his mother’s touch is evident in his colors, his father’s entirely lacking. I don’t remember being this emotional as a child, but I do remember being scared and wishing there was someone, anyone, I could go to for comfort.  How good it was, to find Purah and Kahti and Hanju and yeah, Kafei too. Even though what we did afterwards is entirely inappropriate for a child, Kahti’s shoulder after Temple tells me what I should do now.

“I’m sorry Colin, I though your mom would explain. Sheik just used too much magic to keep us safe, and the doctors wanted to make sure he was alright before he came back.” Link murmurs as I snake my arm around Colin’s back and scooch closer so the hold I can get on him is easy to break but strong enough to take the weight if needed.

It’s needed. Somehow he writhes and transfers his tiny ham-hands from Link’s suit jacket to my sweater faster than I can blink.

“You’re okay, right Sheik?” He sniffles, burrowing against me as Link offers a shrug and a wry smile.

“Yes.” I have a cold, and I’m uncomfortably full and uncomfortably pinned, but I’m okay. I’m more okay than I have been in a long, long time. I ruffle his hair as Link takes his turn at being a backrest.

“Your magic, is it okay?”

“Lord Lincoln is right, I used too much of it, but it is okay. I just need to get stronger again.” I reassure him, and Link grins a thousand watt grin.

“You’ll make sure the monsters don’t get us?” Given the dark terror of his nightmares, the hoarse rasp of his voice, that’s what he’s after. Protection, from something he can’t fight and can’t run from. Easy to figure out, unlike the other blond child sitting next to me. The adult body of that one is simply a disguise.

“Of course. In fact, would you like me to cast a charm on you? It’s like a melon rind, keeping the tasty parts safe from the monsters.” The Gohma wouldn’t have, in fact, eaten him whole, but I don’t think telling him it would have paralyzed him and turned his insides into an organ smoothie before drinking him would help the situation at all.

“Would you?” He asks, eager and delighted. “It wouldn’t hurt you more?”

“Would it?” Link asks, and I shake my head.

“No. It’s only a bit of effort. I cast it on myself regularly, whenever it wears off. It’s easy.” Even if it wasn’t, children need to be protected. Not cocooned – that’s never what Nayru’s Love was intended to do – but supported and cushioned from the full weight of danger.

Take the hit, learn from it, but don’t deny it. Shield and open greeting palms, shape the aetheric flow pouring from his healthy, young, untrained core into a honey-combed dome around him, set it, and cast. See Link’s eyes widen, his finger go to his ear, and that confirms that little pet theory. He _can_ hear my magic, even if he doesn’t recognize it for what it is. If he can hear it, he can cast it, or at least the equivalent version of it.

My new converter is amazing, but it can’t supply or augment the raw power needed. It actually _uses_ more magic than just casting it directly would, but I’d rather not deal with the Witchfinders, thanks. Besides, _Link can hear it_ if I use the converter to transmute my spook magic into an acceptable form. He can hear it. I smile faintly, hiding the expression in Colin’s hair, because if there’s one thing Kahti just didn’t get beyond an elementary school level, it was aetherial manipulation. I haven’t had anyone aside from professors to talk to about it in years, to share that integral part of me _with_. If my _domine_ has the skill and inclination…it would be nice.

“Colin! There you are!” The maid that cleans Link’s suite, or at least tries to while he’s dropping clothing and crumbs like confetti, rushes up the stairs to pull the boy from between us and into her own embrace.

“Hey, Ulli. He just had a nightmare, but everything’s fine now.” Link stands, and I follow suit…or try to. Sir Swiftblade fades as he sacrifices some of his energy so I can stay stable against the wall. Technically standing on my own, but definitely not walking any time soon.

“Sheik made magic for me…” Colin chirps, and I don’t miss the way her hands clutch at her son’s arms or the way her pupils dilate. “…to keep the monsters away!”

“O-oh. That’s…good.” She manages a weak smile. “Are you ready for bed, then? You have school tomorrow and I don’t want you to be cranky for Mrs. Breve.” As she stares at Link, deliberately ignoring my presence entirely, her words gain strength along with my legs.

“Yeah!” Colin nods, and yawns immediately afterward, making my own jaw twitch to join in.

“Come on then, love. Bed time.” She pats his back and bows to Link. “Good night, my Lord.”

“Ulli.” He nods. “You know I would never let anything bad happen to him.”

“Yes, my Lord.” She bows again, fingers twitching on her apron hem.

“Sheik’s the same. Colin, any child, any _one_ , is safe with him.” He tells her, stern and immovable as a Goron. Stubborn bastard. Pointing out her discomfort won’t relieve it, and him doing it won’t change her perception of me. The only thing that will is time, effort, and experience. We are our deeds, and she hasn’t seen any of mine. It’s not like media representation does anything good for anyone like me, either.

Still, it’s nice of him to stand up for me. A week ago, I’d ask what he wants in return. Offered to make him feel good. I’ve learned better. His colors, the ever shifting as well as the stable bases, for the first time since he caught me outside Archaeology, are in accord. Midna’s Chirped quote on reading _Spellbook of the Lost and Found_ seems a particularly apt descriptor. “Do no harm, but take no shit.” Tonight, now, I can feel my face flush like I’ve eaten a dozen plateau peppers raw. Embarrassed and pleased and grateful and shamed all at once. Flustered, with a faint side of nausea to accompany it.

Then there’s my nose.

“Yes, my Lord.” This time it’s a full proper curtsy, which would definitely look better if she was wearing a skirt instead of the practical pants that most of the staff here wear on duty for their shifts.

“Go on, Colin’s waiting.” Link sighs, and waits until she’s down the stairs and out of sight before moving to take my hand. I walk through rosemary and citrus, and Lady Mavis giggles and returns to her rest. He doesn’t let go, and should really have at least a lock or a keypad or some sort of security system on his suite, even if it would mean having to pause before opening the door. Inside, I’m freed from his grip if not his presence, which permeates this space…differently. Not any less, but something has changed. Something I can’t see.

Something new. Experience tells me that means dangerous, even if it doesn’t feel like it at the moment. Nayru stays quiet, but still…

I ward the threshold as best I can without elemental, spiritual, or sympathetic assistance. If an incorporeal threat materializes, it will be rebuffed instead of dispersed. Corporeal entities will simply wake me. It’s the best I can do with the strength and resources I have.

Better than I could do to my dorm room, but that had a keycard. I’m stronger, but have fewer tools to work with. I should start stocking up, and practicing. Ms. Risoka was quite clear on that point.

I will protect him, even if he never fucks me again and I have to wait a decade for the bond to settle. Even if I must spend that time at his side without being touched any more than this. We are our deeds. _Noblesse oblige_ isn’t a bad trait for a _domine_ to have…but he cares. He truly, honestly, openly cares about the people he leads.

So very, deeply, honestly, weird.

I…like it. I think I might like him. That’s fine, as long as I don’t get above myself.

He changes in the bathroom as I unbind my hair so I can re-braid it loosely for sleep. My wrappings, my beads, my converter, my Silver Scale all end up on the side-table in the order I’ll need them should my wards be triggered. I forget all about the blazing glory of my new markings until I have my shirt off and catch sight of them in the dresser mirror.

The Eye. Triforce. Gate-seal. Loftwing. Red as Din’s earth on skin that’s a sickly tan, covered in honey-straw hair that curtains the essentials if I were to pull a Godiva. Starkly protruding hips and collar bones. Visible ribs. No real ass to speak of. Bruising, both from the intravenous lines and playtime with Gohma. Goddess, I look like shit. No wonder he’d rather fuck his pillow, it’s easier on his hips.

My pajamas seem thin, even though I know the flannel is sturdy and thick and the teal blue that Lady Senza was so taken with does bring out my eyes. It covers the frailty, the bruising, and most of the markings that I never asked for and don’t really want, armor against feeling as exposed as Paya’s corpse was when they finally found it. I tie the belt and glance into the mirror once more, then untie it so the fabric falls down instead of cinching around my waist and revealing just how long I’ve been without regular meals. Clean socks to keep my feet warm - that both match and have no holes - complete the look.

Even if having clothing designed specifically to sleep in is odd, and I find that I like that, too. I have my brush and elastic in hand when Link emerges in the most garish shade of seafoam green loungers since the electric neon craze of the early years of King Gustaf the second.

At least I’m no longer the most disgusting thing in the room. They’re spectacularly awful, and clash horribly with the dark brown and orange print of his undershirt. That he would voluntarily wear those two items together leaves me speechless and wanting to call Lady Senza for help. I didn’t have a budget for a better wardrobe, but he doesn’t have _taste_. That’s a much bigger problem.

“Here, let me.” He murmurs, and picks up my hair brush. As entertaining as the thought of him spanking me with it is, it makes sitting while he brushes and braids my hair as awkward as a cow on a crutch. The braid itself is a little tighter than I usually sleep with, but then again, so is the rest of me. He flips the length over my shoulder, and his hands go to the back of my neck, exposing the Triforce marking and not helping my tension in the least.

“Oh. Oooh.” The moan is loud, and startles me badly. Then I realize I’m the one doing it as his fingers press against my nape and card beneath the sections of braid to rub against my scalp. Gracious Hylia, that’s…good. Really good.

“You’re so tense.” He complains, and digs his fingers into my shoulders to keep me from replying with anything but more moaning. If anyone presses an ear to the door, they’re going to think we’re fucking. I don’t care, this is nearly as good. Nearly, especially when he gets the knot of tension right…there…

As embarrassing as the elastic crotch-flap was, it’d be incredibly useful right now. I don’t have the will to move, let alone get naked for him, as long as he’s doing _this._ His thumbs press up my neck and I hear something creak like the floorboards in a suspense-thriller, then pop. Goddesses. With his hands spreading and rubbing along the back of my head from one ear to the other, white spots glimmer like stars across my vision. I’m not hard, but fuck, that doesn’t matter. Not that it matters anyway. I can’t care about anything but the feel of his hands. It’s so good.

“How can you even breathe? You’re so tense.” He huffs, moist and warm and soft, into my ear. “Take off your shirt for me?” He asks. Then helps.

Fuck yes.

The chill and anticipation has my nipples hard before I even get my arms though the sleeves, but he doesn’t care. He just keeps pressing and rubbing and damn his hands are strong. I knew the rest of him was, but he doesn’t have to use any of his weight to beat my shoulders into submission. The rest of me goes with them, because why not. He can use the hair brush later. This is great as is.

Molding me into a putty. No one’s ever flattened me just by rubbing my back before. Climbing on it, using their weight to hold me down, yeah, eventually. Not with guiding pressure and whispered words alone. He’s so fucking weird, but it works for him even if it confuses me. The lassitude spreading through my muscles is pervasive as it gets after doing the pelvic polka, but without the effort or accompanying mess. My shoulder burns a little when he straddles my back, but the sensation is lost the second he pushes at the base of my skull and between my shoulder-blades at the same time.

“Oh. Oh, fuuuuuuuck.” I gasp, kind of wishing he would but feeling good enough that I don’t need his cream cannon blasting me to the stars. I can see them well enough already.

“You’re loud.” He laughs, and I snort into the pillow.

“And rain’s wet.” I grunt as he thumps a particularly stubborn knot, making him chuckle before ironing that out, too. He keeps running his hands up into my hair, tugging on it as much as it pulled when he was lying on it, but this isn’t as annoying. This is nice. I could get used to this. Not that I don’t want him to pull my hair too, but not…right…now…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having eaten the first three pages of a book, I can say from experience that the second page is harder than the first, and the third leaves your mouth dry for hours after.


	14. The Internet Is For Porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Link.

Between one slow breath and the next, he drops into a sleep so deep that he doesn’t flinch when I stick his arms back into his night shirt and tug it down as best I can to cover the tattoo across his shoulders that definitely disturbs me, now. It…moved. Tattoos shouldn’t move. They’re supposed to be permanent. It moved, and not the tiny Triforce pattern just below his hairline, but the large circular semi-floral tattoo that goes over his shoulders, back, and chest.  The biggest one, even if it was only a part of it.

Instead of rotating clockwise, three of the twelve petals face counter-clockwise, in the middle of the individual segments. They’re all on his back, so I have no idea if he knows. I don’t know if I should tell him, or if it even matters when there are other things that are much more significant we still need to discuss. Goddess, I still don’t even have his phone number. That string of digits would have prevented a whole range of problems, but I keep forgetting to ask for them. He makes me forget everything else, just by existing.

He sounds…better. No rasp or sniffles, the wet shuck of his breaths now a soft, steady puff. Ashei’s as stubborn as I am, so I can understand how she’d convince him outside despite his cold. I hold her responsible for it. I hold him responsible for not telling me about being assaulted. I missed any names – occupied by speaking with Ashei and then Telma – but not the date or the charges. I was with him the whole day. At least I thought I was, but apparently at some point where I wasn’t right there with him…I don’t even know how bad it was, but I have my suspicions. I’m not an idiot. Not that any level of assault is good. There are so many things I want to ask him, but he’s dead to the world. It will wait until tomorrow, even if patience isn’t my strong suit. It has to.

With the creepy, moving tattoo covered up, I can tug the covers out from underneath him and then tuck them in around him. Now that he’s not moaning like that - reminding me what it felt like to be inside of him, how good it was, how he matched my pace freely - I can go tend to myself in the washroom without commentary or guilt. Some lotion and a handful of tissues, and problem solved. One of my problems. My nap in the car was a bad idea, I’m wide awake now.

I might as well study.

The folder for Sheik’s essays on my slate is just under a hundred kilobytes, not including the image files, which is incredible. He really worked hard today, to have finished that much. I open the first essay just to take a peek, and can follow his comparative presentation even if I have no idea what either casting style consists of. There are some references I don’t understand, and a few odd ways of phrasing things, but it’s perfectly laid out. I should have him check my essay over once I get around to writing it. I tend to forget things like punctuation.

Not tonight. I’m awake, but not up to putting thoughts into coherent sentences. Instead, I go through the chapter on how the printing press influenced the spread of the Hylian Renaissance for Kaepora’s lectures next week, making notes and taking the quiz at the end of the chapter to test my memory. Reviewing the pages with answers to the questions I missed leads me into yawning, so I set the text aside and log in to check my Chirping account.

Seventeen flags, and almost three hundred updates. Fewer than I expected, but enough to keep me occupied until I’m ready to sleep. I start with the updates, eliminating the repetitions and notifications on comments as I scan each thread I’m following.  There’s something about the Lorulean Foreign Minister to the Highlands being caught lying on camera about the very people he’s the Foreign Minister to that’s blowing up my feed, and I waste a good twenty minutes reviewing both videos and end up disgusted. Unfollowing the thread is almost as cathartic as sparring with Ashei or one of the trainers at the salle, and I wish I could get rid of the thought patterns of the commenting Moblins as easily.

I can’t though, not without becoming one myself. It’s their choice, just like it’s my choice to not be so frightened of other cultures that I feel the need to destroy them. I’d rather build bridges than burn them. Strength in diversity, like mom said and Tetra tries to live. I’m more concerned about my character than my reputation, but that doesn’t mean I’m not concerned about my reputation at all. Given the choice, I’ll preserve both, but if I have to choose, I’ll do what is right, not what’s popular. Especially if popularity is measured by Chirping followers and strangers’ opinions on the internet.

Speaking of which, some of the questions I have for the man currently sleeping in my bed could easily be answered by the internet, as long as I make sure to hold a healthy dose of skepticism and check my sources. The Society for Cultural Anthropology online journal seems like a good place to start. Much better than the Real Spooky Teen Girls Getting Freaky site that pops up in the same search, anyway. There aren’t a lot of results, but expanding my search parameters brings up articles with no credible sources mentioned and frequently no sources at all.

Refining it further leaves me with three options, one of which is written in something that’s supposed to be Sheikan but either is a fake or doesn’t display properly. The first is still the Society for Cultural Anthropology, and I click on the link to an unpublished paper by a regular contributor who does have a number of published articles already in circulation. It was updated less than a week ago, but in a section that doesn’t interest me nearly as much. I scroll down to the portion of the article that was flagged by my search.

_… With this cultural predisposition towards visual cues, the typical Sheikah appears to be inclined towards close fitting textiles that allow others to view the body in its entirety, though modern Hylian fashion is easily adapted to this standard by the use of wrappings to bind fabrics into an acceptable configuration. These wrappings extend to cover the hair of unmarried Sheikah males, though there is some evidence for the binding of hair to be a reliced means of maintaining cleanliness and ritual_   _purity_.(4) see Shrine Monks of The Burning Fields by Kala, Bosh 2192 _Other hairstyles do have meaning, though fewer and fewer of modern Sheikah families practice the intricate braiding and binding, instead favoring popular cuts and colorings of the dominant culture in which they live._

_Unusually, given the emphasis in display of rank, structure, and subculture among the Sheikah people, very few have taken to the practice of tattooing. Those that do participate are included in one of two potential categories: the outcast and the elite. Currently, the only recognized members of the latter to have any form of tattooing are the Sheikah Grand Master Impa Palmorae of Hyrule, the former Grand Master Xiva Atun, and High Priestess Veran Pansori of the Shadow Temple. When independently asked, each of these elite ascribed their markings as the work of divine intervention. Those of the outcast, collectively referred to as the “Garo”, will have tattoos from a variety of sources and styles, though they are still less likely to have any form of permanent ink than a member of the general populace. This may be, in part, due to the particular difficulty in achieving even coloring and maintaining it on Sheikah skin, which requires frequent manipulation to…_

The rest of the article turns to focus on the primitive religion still practiced by most Sheikah, and while I find that interesting as well, it’s not what I wanted to know. The bindings, the hair, the tattooing. Less than two whole paragraphs of primarily speculation in the most reliable article available, which is simply quoted in the second link, although that site has pictures as well.  It’s reassuring that, whatever else, Sheik’s tattoos are in the same style as the mentioned elite. Speaking to Tye and Regan, I was worried. I’m still worried, but unlike the situation with his expulsion, I can’t just throw money at it to fix it. I’m not sure if there’s anything I can do about it at all.

I can, however, do something about a number of other problems. Even if Zuko can recover some of the information on Sheik’s shattered slate, he needs a new one, and I can order that online easily. He needs his own space, or rather, I need my own space. I know he’ll insist on being close by, and the room across the hall as well as the one next to mine are unoccupied. Across the hall is a guest room which gets fairly frequent use – mostly by my friends – but the room next to mine is just being used to store dust and furniture. If I’d had a sibling, it would have been theirs. When Tetra and I marry, I’ll move in with her, so even if we spend time here, I won’t need more space than I already take up.

That decision is easy as well. There’s even a construction crew already on site to deal with the elevator mess, so re-modelling will just be an extension of services already in progress. A handful of clicks and a credit card number, and it’s done. Telma’s already agreed to help me feed him up, and Ashei will spar with him for exercise if I can get them both to agree on a time and pay her tutor’s fees in addition to her regular wage. The only other concern I have I can’t throw money at to fix or delegate. I can’t even practice, and although I can research what do to, until I actually try I don’t have any way to know if I’m doing even moderately well.

He was moaning a lot at my massage tonight, and I know I’m good at that, but he moaned a lot when we had sex, too, and I’m not as confident with my ability at that as I am with massage. At least, not with a male partner. I know what I like, but I also know that Tetra and Malon like different things and so I can’t count on transferring my preferences as being the best option. I’ve also heard their complaints and requests, and have to take that into consideration as well. I don’t even know if he actually wants me, or if he just uses sex to get what he does want. I keep replaying the conversation we had in my car that first night, and every word he’s said after while we’ve been intimate.

“ _Everyone’s a whore, hero. Some people just want something other than money. I_ need _money. What I want doesn’t really matter, does it?”_

_“Fifty rupees for the blow job would be good.”_

_“You can’t rape the willing. Fuck me. Goddess, please fuck me.”_

_“You could throw me a bone here. Better yet, you could bury it. I even have a hole you could use.”_

_“Never stuck your dick up a poop-chute before? It’s not that hard. Well, it’s hard enough. Climb on, I’ll show you.”_

_“Until then, it’s just fucking. So_ fuck me _already. Ah! Fuuuuck. Fill me up.”_

So I did. Yet since the Grand Master reset his bonds, he’s barely touched me. One half-hearted innuendo here, a lewd comment there, but he hasn’t urged me to act on my impulses or fulfil the magic that will seal the bond, and I can’t help but worry that it’s because he doesn’t want me to. He’s been clear enough that he wants the bond, wants to be my Sheik, but the act itself…did I hurt him, the first time? Was it bad? Malon said that…that _kind_ of sex took a lot of preparation for it to feel good. I didn’t do much in that department. Less than at the hospital, even, though I used a lot more and a lot better lubricant than his spit.

He was so tight. I didn’t even think about it. I also didn’t use a condom for the first time in my life, but did he want me to? Cumming inside of him felt amazing for me, but I don’t know about him. He didn’t complain, but he also didn’t complain to me after being assaulted, so I can’t tell. Is it painful? Does it feel awful? I have no way of knowing without asking him directly. Even if it was fine, I know I can make it better for him. Practice makes perfect after all.

The first time I picked up a sword, I couldn’t hold it long, let alone swing it with any accuracy. The same for the bow. I barely got the condom on the first time Tetra and I did anything. Now that we’re both a little better at it, she’s clingy. Malon likes to ride me. Kaya kept rolling over and going to his knees so I was behind him, so I have to assume that’s his preference. I didn’t like it as much, and know that my preference is to be able to see my partner’s face, talk to them, and kiss.  It’s all better with practice, though. Different physical skills for different situations.

It’s still a mistake to type what I type into the search bar, and removing the tilde doesn’t help. Adding a number of parameters does, as does specifying instructional versions only, but there are still more results than I can hope to distill. Hundreds of thousands. Video, images, text, websites. It’s almost one in the morning, hours later than I usually stay up and a bad habit to get into with Reading Week officially half way over. Searching for porn in the dark, it’s like I’m fourteen again. In a lot of ways, I am. Next to no experience, curious, and horny, without a partner – paid or otherwise – readily available.

I refuse to wake Sheik up just to have him tend to my self-induced arousal. He needs the rest, and I can manage just fine on my own. My stamina’s been a point of contention with both Tetra and Malon, so I’ve learned how to keep us all happy. I’m good with just me, my hand, and my imagination…and porn. There’s a lot of it, and I’ve already watched enough of it to know I definitely have a type I enjoy and a type that doesn’t do anything for me. That matches what I knew before. The only thing that’s different this time is the matching genitalia of the actors.

Vocal. Face to face. Lots of foreplay, like a story. I like stories. It’s why I’m a History major. I find something that has all three in relatively short order, based on an old myth about the constellations. The acting is awful, but there’s genuine enjoyment from both adult film actors in the sex. I watch it twice to achieve my end goal, and change clothes before sliding under the covers to wrap my arms around Sheik’s middle before he gets all grabby.

Not that I don’t like having him press himself against me. I just wish he’d do it when he’s awake. I like him snuggling into my arms, it makes me feel warm and strong and proud. Like I could take on the world and win, without breaking a sweat. Like he trusts me. Malon puts up with it, and Tetra will seek it out herself, but neither of them will do it unselfconsciously or stay there through the night. Sheik, once he’s happy with the arrangement, doesn’t move. Doesn’t snore. Doesn’t hog the covers or kick, though his feet are colder than anything aside from an ice block when they press against my calves. If he’d wear thicker socks, that’d be great. Other than his feet though, I have no real complaints regarding having him in my bed.

Maybe his hair. It’s so easy to roll onto accidentally, and somehow strands of it always seem to migrate to my mouth overnight even though it’s thick enough that he has to use the largest commercially available elastic for the end of it. Part of that may be the linen strips he has woven into his braid, which he never wears to sleep. Just my loose plait that lets me run my fingers through the strands and massage his scalp.  Even asleep, he moans at the contact, and if I hadn’t masturbated twice in as many hours I’d have to with that sound.  As it is, I can stop. Put my arm across his waist, roll enough to throw the other behind me, and tangle our legs. He snorts, squirms a bit, and drops right back into the slow, deep, rhythmic breaths I’ve come to know.

They lull me into following in short order. I rouse a bit when the sun rises, and again when he leaves my embrace, but don’t wake fully until nearly ten. Again. This is such a bad habit to fall into, with Kaepora’s History 284 on even days. Now, Sheik’s got a class at the same time on odd days, so I really can’t afford to give in to my natural inclinations and sleep this late. Not until at least the end of the term. From the steady clack of keys I can hear, he’s broken out the larger keyboard and is working on his essays again. Already. Ugh.

Mornings. Bah.

Grunting at my phone doesn’t make it come any closer, so I have to roll over and actually reach to text Gillian that I’m up, signaling her to tell whoever is in the kitchen to start my breakfast. One good thing about having Sheik here, sharing my space, is that I make an honest effort to get everything in the bowl and wash my hands afterward even if I’m just heading into the shower. Hot water to clean, cold water to wake up. Dry off, debate clothing.

“Good morning, Ulli.” Kaya’s tenor murmurs from the reception room.

“G-good morning, Sheik.” Ulli, her alto surprised but not scared. A little nervous, which is fair, but still, good.

“Thank you for your service.” Sheik murmurs, and the clicking of the keyboard resumes.

“Do…do you need anything brought up? Tea? Toast?” She asks. He’s been awake for nearly three hours at this point. He needs to eat. It’s only a dozen steps to the doorway.

“Oatmeal, an egg, some fruit, and coffee.” I growl, and Ulli squeaks as Kaya stops typing to stare at me, his hair bound up again and dressed in a raglan sleeved shirt and skinny jeans that actually fit him like skinny jeans should. Even his socks coordinate. I wonder if his underwear does too, and know that I just have to ask for him to show me. Another morning problem arises at the thought, and I really don’t have time to deal with that on a school day. Not without waking up earlier than some people go to sleep.

“Y…y…yes. Sir. Ah. Yessir.” Ulli coughs, bows, and skitters out faster than I’ve seen her move, ever.

“Good morning.” Sheik nods to me, still staring. “I’ve already eaten, fuck you very much.”

“Well then you can just eat again.” I reason, annoyed. “You’re too skinny.”

“Want more cushion for the pushin’?” He drawls, leaning back on the couch and tilting his head. “It’d be faster just to bend me over a pillow.”

“You’re lewd.” I grumble, flustered.

“You’re dripping.” He grins wider and deliberately drops his eyes. “And I can see you like it.”

“I’ll…be right back.” He’s right, I am dripping. While I’m still not accustomed to his casual, almost nonchalant sexuality, I also can’t disagree with his assessment.

“See you later, masturbator!” He laughs as I close the bedroom door behind me. No wonder Ulli squeaked. Not that it’s the first time she’s seen a naked man - she had Colin after all - but definitely the first time she’s seen me in less than a swimsuit. Goddess, I’m an idiot in the morning, at least before I’ve put something in my stomach. Not so much of one that I forget to take my phone with me this time, though, and unlock it as I go.

“Catch.” I call, and wait until Sheik looks at me to toss him my phone. He flails out with a jerk and a curse to catch it in both hands, nearly falling off the couch. “Your number. Give it.” I order, and sit down to my usual breakfast. I’m halfway through when Ulli returns with a second tray. Sheik makes sure to put my phone down carefully when he comes over before I have to call him, which is good. He even eats some of it, though the sounds his stomach makes tells me it’s not happy about it. Not at all.

“Urgh.” He half-hiccups, half-burps once he’s managed the half-grapefruit and three bites of porridge in otherwise stoic silence. His stomach roils, but he doesn’t retch. Small mercies.

“Don’t push it.” I murmur. “You did well.”

I’m expecting some crude and dismissive rebuttal, so when it doesn’t come and he simply pushes the plate a little further away onto the table and sits, breathing deeply, I pay closer attention. He’s…uncomfortable. Uncomfortable enough that it hurts, drawing his breathing into quick pants as his stomach continues its song and dance. He swallows thickly, wincing, as a burble ripples up from his stomach and into his esophagus and brings acid with it. I can smell it. His number is in my phone, with more information than just that. Enough that, should I want to, I could ping and trace his phone any time I wanted.

Everything I asked of him, and more. My annoyance fades with the last of the morning mist, and rapidly turns to guilt. I’ve literally taken everything from him, and didn’t even realize I was doing it. That he had so little to start with doesn’t excuse my actions. I think it makes them worse. His autonomy, his privacy, his future, his style, his body, his dreams. I’ve taken them all.

“I’m sorry.” I rasp, bowing my head.

“Unless I puke, you don’t need to be.” He gurgles. “It’s just more food than I’m used to, s’all.”

“You’ve been saying that for the last six days…” I point out. “…and eating less than half what I do, while being just as active.”

“You’re gonna get fat.” He snorts, then pales and swallows hard.

“Eventually, but not today. Today, if you’re feeling better, we’re going to the salle for three o’clock. I generally don’t come back until around six, so be prepared for a workout.” I warn. He stares at me for all of five seconds, then stands and wobbles over to the couch.

“Catch.” He calls, and lobs his phone at me, already unlocked. I don’t need the rest of the instructions, and have my contact information entered neat as you please by the time he makes it back to the table. His hand is cool when I give him back his phone, skin dry.

I’ve finished my waffle when my phone buzzes with a notification, but my fingers are still a bit sticky from the syrup. It’s from him, anyway, and if it needed answering immediately he could just ask. He’s less than an arm’s reach away.

He sits, calmly sipping at his black coffee while I finish the rest of my breakfast, and doesn’t appear to mind me watching the news while he types on the same couch. Thighs touching. Distracting, but only in the newness of it. Not enough to take my focus away from the reporters still chattering about the Hinox and Freezards and Wizzrobes, but enough that I’m aware of it every time he shifts. The deliberate double tap of his knee once the commercial break starts reminds me to check my phone, and I spend the next two minutes and fourteen seconds furiously entering my regular activities on the scheduling rune he’s set up.

It’s perfect, and I’d call him a genius for it, but I already know I’m just inept when it comes to things like that. Not that he’s not a genius, he’d have to be to achieve and maintain a full scholarship for the two and a half years he’s already finished. He’s smart and he works hard, but I don’t know what he likes, let alone how to praise him in a way that won’t embarrass either of us or make him think I’m being patronizing. It sounded like he enjoyed my massage, so maybe physical methods. It could be actions though. I’ll just have to try both.

HNN comes back on with updates on the weather throughout the kingdom, and I wait for Castletown and Perdubois to come up. Korokshire’s right in the middle, meaning it’ll be around eight degrees out with light precipitation and, surprise of surprises, foggy. As the announcer moves further south and east, I log back into the scheduling rune and put in a massage from eight to eight thirty tonight, setting ‘on my bed’ for the location.

“We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you breaking news from Elma Knolls.” The announcer says, disrupting the weather lady’s segment abruptly as the screen turns from the Necludas to what is clearly a phone camera filming. “Large birdlike creatures have swarmed this peaceful suburban neighborhood and appear to be dropping large rocks on anything that moves. Residents are advised to remain indoors, closing drapes and blinds wherever possible. The Rito Vanguard has been alerted, but it will take some time for them to arrive. Please, stay indoors. I repeat. Stay indoors. This is not a drill.”

“Hrok.” Sheik chokes, and starts texting immediately. I watch the screen, trying to get a better glimpse of the things, wishing I could hear more than the rasping breaths of the person filming. I get both just as his phone rings and one of the huge bird-things dives and belches out a mass that shatters the window but thankfully doesn’t go through. There’s a lot of screaming, footsteps, and a spectacular view of a ceiling for a handful of moments before the video replays. I pause it right before the bird thing lets loose the stone, but still can’t see much. A red gullet. Blue feathers. That’s all.

The other stations are no better, and I call Tetra while Sheik rasps in the strange, ancient language that I’m growing more and more wary of. Nothing good happens whenever he uses it. My call goes to voicemail, as does the second one, and I leave a message to call me about Elma Knolls when she can. There’s nothing more I can do, here. If I was there, and had my bow, it would be another story, but I skipped last practice to take Sheik shopping. Technically I put the skill to use there, but it wasn’t practice. It didn’t last as long, I didn’t fire nearly as many times, and I didn’t push my max load limits either, though I did wind up just as exhausted from it.

I shot a Hinox in the eye, and watched as Cia and Aaron beat it to death. It’s a wonder I haven’t had nightmares. The T.A.R.G.E.T. officers were better than I thought, to keep everyone from freaking out after. Specifically, me. The surge of adrenaline, the tense anticipation, the way the blood rushes to my extremities and makes my stomach sound like Sheik’s does right now all comes flooding back. Admittedly not as intense as it was in the mall, but still enough that my mouth goes dry and I want to _move_. To _do_ something. Anything. If only to keep from doing something embarrassing.

“The Fifth Wing Vanguard has arrived at the theatre. We go now to mobile correspondent Lynn Cal. Lynn?”

“Thanks, Guru. As you can see behind me, the Fifth Wing Vanguard has engaged the large, bird-like monsters that have been terrorizing the residents of Elma Knolls for nearly an hour now. Independent sources call the creatures “Hrok”, and consider them a harbinger of a Resurgence of the legendary Calamity that befell Hyrule in the ancient past. Scientists at both Castletown University and Akkala Labs, however, say the flock has simply been displaced from their natural habitat by urban development. A Lon Lon Nature Preserve representative recommends extreme caution by residents of Elma Knolls until the monstrous birds have been contained.”

“Thank you, Lynn. To all those currently in the area, please, stay under cover. The Fifth Wing Vanguard is attending to the situation, and will announce an all clear when it is safe to emerge. We will bring you updates as they occur. Please, stay tuned as we return to our regularly scheduled programming.”

For some reason, it’s hard to pay attention to new bike lanes downtown or scheduled renovations to Harker Lake Aquatic Center when there are monsters attacking people in the suburbs.

“Hey.” Sheik says, tapping his knee against mine again.

“Hmm?”

“How to give good oral? Violet sex instructions?” He drawls. “You could have just asked.”

“Uh. I…” The amusement in his voice delays the shock at his statement from registering long enough that I get to mostly skip over it and go straight to embarrassment. My face hurts at how hard I must be blushing, but it makes him laugh.

“Thanks for thinking of me.” He murmurs with a grin before turning back to my slate and starting to type again. In profile, the red of the Eye tattoo over the right side of his face just emphasizes how red his own eye is. How red both of them are. Red eyes, tan skin, blond hair making up a harmonious whole that for some reason reminds me of fire.  Not the raging wildfires that sometimes race through the area around Death Mountain, or the faint flickering of a candle flame, but the steady crackle of a Solstice log. Warm. Welcoming, but will still burn you if you get too close.

Why did he bring up my late night porn searches?

Why didn’t he push for…for anything regarding them? Yes, he offered to give me instruction, but he didn’t offer his body. Didn’t pose or entice or do anything to encourage me to respond. He didn’t even move to play footsie. The constant innuendo, the crude propositions…they’ve been fading as time passes. Today, they’re gone. His breathing is as deep and slow as I’ve heard it outside of sleep since I’ve met him.

“You’re staring.” He says, not so much as glancing in my direction.  I know, because I am staring.

He’s comfortable. Calm.

Why, though? He’s thoroughly focused on his second essay. Why would he take the time to distract me and then not do anything about…to distract me. That was the point. He noticed I wasn’t paying attention to anything and moved to interrupt so I _could_ do something, even if it’s him. Goddess, I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve him…but I will. I will.

“Schedule it in?” I have to clear my throat twice before the words will come out, but they do.

“Hmm?” He hums, fingers tapping away.

“Tell me how.” Now that I’ve started, I need to finish. “I…when…the bond…ah.” My exhalation is harsher than I anticipate, and he turns to face me, eyes wide and lips slightly parted in shock.

“My Lord, I…”

“Link.” I interrupt. I can’t…if he calls me by my title, I can’t. “Please.”

“Apologies, Lord Link…”

“ _Link_.”

“Link.” He says. Finally. Even though his heart is beating faster and his breath comes in irregular intervals.

“Kaya.” I breathe. His skin smooth from a recent shave and as supple as I remember beneath my palm. “Teach me how to please you. I want to make you feel as good as you made me feel, next time.”

“N…now?” He squeaks. “I need to shower, first.”

“Tonight?” I counter. We’ll both need to shower after exercise, though what showering has to do with anything, I have no idea.

“Yessi…alright. Link.” He nods, staring for a moment before turning back to his paper. I face the television, but my mind’s not on what the announcer is saying. It’s on him, and why, of all the possible responses he could have had, he went with fear.

I suppose I’ll just have to wait and find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first sat down and started this (massive, massive, nauseatingly massive) work of fanfiction for nanowrimo in 2017, I had one line which only made it into the story in the next chapter, and incredibly vague outline of seven words scribbled on scrap paper, and a staunch murmur of a muse telling me that this was happening in a modern day setting, albeit an alternate universe.  
> Then a snarky little bastard showed up and decided to help narrate, and the rest is history.  
> To all of you who have been reading from the start, thank you. Thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you. For those just starting in now, welcome, strap in, and enjoy the ride. To those coming across this in the future, I'm glad you've joined us.
> 
> ~ Tenpointson


	15. A Demon at the Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stay on your toes, or you'll be brought to your knees.   
> Link continues to be a bit too naive and kind.   
> Sheik keeps overthinking everything.   
> It's been an eventful week for the boys so far.   
> Too bad that was the easy part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially past the halfway mark...for the first, introductory arc of the story.

All innuendo and euphemisms aside, speaking entirely honestly, Link is a master swordsman. I’ve witnessed enough blade work to know when I’m entirely outclassed, and this is by an order of magnitude. It’s like he was born to wield a blade.

All innuendo and euphemisms intended, Link is a moderately skilled, highly athletic swordsman with twice the stamina of a normal guy his age. To extend the metaphor, he’s going to stab me with the full length of his sword. Tonight.

Normally I’d be thrilled, but normally all that’s at stake is whether or not I’ll eat tomorrow. I’m only starting to get used to the idea that I don’t need to worry about that anymore, that I have somewhere to sleep that’s soft and warm and comfortable, that I don’t need to carry everything I have on me to keep it from being taken away. That I can have sex because I want to, and by the Three do I want to have him pin me to the mats and tug down our pants just enough for him to ram me hard and fast and dry. Use me, and leave me panting and drooling on the floor, completely ravaged. Fuck, yes. _Please_.

Watching him fence with the others in the advanced class isn’t helping keep my rager in check, either, and I can barely remember my own lessons in handling blades vaguely. No playing with swords for me, at least not in the very tangible and literal way. Not today. No sir. I should start practicing again, but my skill with any blade longer than my palm has never been better than mediocre. Speed and precision over reach and stamina. Then the staff, and the chain.  Things that I can use momentum to generate force rather than relying on strength alone to get the job done because – surprise of surprises – I’m as bulky as a tissue and twice as tough.  

My magic is strong enough that I could handle the Hinox situation again, but there’s no circle here to practice in. There isn’t even a space for aetherically enhanced weapons combat, leading me to the conclusion that just physical skills are taught and practiced here, no magical ones at all. With a half dozen swordsmen and women currently whacking at each other like there’s money owed or relatives deflowered, there’s no space in the room for me that’s safe. Accidents happen, and I’ve signed no waivers. The staff is visibly relieved when I leave to find something else to do besides being a liability, though there isn’t much that isn’t just as risky. At least they have a track.

I’m damn good at running, so instead of embarrassing myself and my master in front of everyone here, I do that. Stay hydrated by building a mnemonic to sip at my Silver Scale’s mouth piece, and run. Alternate sprints with light jogging. Run. Run until everything narrows down to the path beneath my feet and the steady, deep breaths that will carry me as far as I need to go. Run until I can’t. Stop. Stretch. Breathe. Run some more.

When my knees are shaking like twigs in a hurricane I do two more laps walking to cool down, then a third stretching while walking, and a fourth. Steadier, still feeling like I could fall over if I’m not careful, I head back towards the practice room, glancing at the clock over the reception desk as I do. It’s nearly six, so I’ve been running for the better part of two hours. No wonder my legs are both tingly and numb. At least my brain is, too. I’d hate to have put in all that effort for nothing.

A quick peek through the reinforced glass tells me that the class is winding down, and that clears some of the fog I’ve managed to achieve right quick. The rest of it goes when I see the showers, and I have a brief moment to wonder if Link would mind me smelling like a few liters of sweat for the ride back before dismissing the thought entirely. He loves his Epona like it was a pet instead of a vehicle, and despite its age it smells like nothing more than old leather and shampoo. The KFC grease-waft was vacuumed out right away, and that shit stinks even when you’re starving. I would know.

Better make it quick, then, before the class comes in.

The mirrors over the sinks and florescent lighting do me no favors, and I loop my hair through some of the bindings to hold it out of the way so I don’t get it wet and end up having to wash it here, too.  There’s nowhere close by to keep my street clothes, and the floor is too damp to just leave them there, making me settle for using a towel hook in the room over. The showers are just spigots in the wall, motion sensor activation, no temperature control, pumps for soap and shampoo between every pair, and no dividers or screens at all.

I haven’t been naked in public in years. I don’t like the necessity of it now, even though I’m alone for the moment. The water’s cold, but I can’t bring myself to wait for it to warm up. I can’t. They’re coming, and soon. I have to finish before then. The scent of the cheap liquid soap is familiar, bringing no comfort. I lather quickly. Scrub away the sweat, focusing a little extra attention on the areas that tend to smell the most. Rinse away the suds, spinning in place to get them all. Rush back to the towel area like my ass is on fire, and I’m still too fucking late.

Forelock – I can’t remember his actual name, just that he’s one of Big Red grease-weasel’s thug associates – has my clothing in hand and a shit-eating grin on his face that would put a dung beetle to shame. Naked, and sporting a disproportionally huge baby-maker that’s definitely ready to make babies. I hope he’s a grower and not a shower, otherwise walking with that thing would just be awkward.

“Nice ink.” He’s bold, that’s for sure. Confident in his nudity whereas I’m just nauseous with a noxious combination of fear of him and disappointment in myself. I should have known better. I _did_ know better, and I was still an idiotic fuck. Best face the consequences immediately, and get them over with. The only question is, what does he want? “You almost fooled me, but I know you. You’re that spook whore Groose likes.”

“May I have my clothing back, please?” I lower my eyes, curl in my shoulders a little, show him the deference and submission he’s seeking and hope against hope that he doesn’t want more than that.

“Let me see your marks first.” He leers, looking at a lot more of me than the red lines on my skin, holding my clothing on the far side as he circles me. “Korokshire do that to you? Brand you as his?” He asks, cock twitching in response to the idea of Link treating me like livestock. Like he’s supposed to, if I’m honest with myself. Like he hasn’t been, from the very start. He’s been nothing but kind. Giving. Gentle. All in the face of suspicion, revulsion, and upheaval, while going through the most important decision of his life. His engagement to a Princess. I’m a distraction from it and an upset to it, and he still…treats me with compassion at every turn.

I know it. We are our deeds. I’ve been working on mine, and able to observe his for almost a whole week. I’ve yet to see him in the rut of routine, but the moments where he slips, where he’s comfortable, familiar, he’s magnificent. I notice, and then feel small and weak and pathetic in comparison. Not…jealous, though. He just makes me want to be _better_. To deserve his attention. Gain his approval. Not be a fucking pus-for-brains wilting violet spook.

He wanted me to like him before he makes me his, as if I didn’t like him from that first public tantrum when he was six. I want…I wanted him to claim me and be done with it. Wanted what he represented more than what he is. Who he is. That security. I don’t…want that anymore. Not just that. I want more. I _hope_ for more.

Goddesses _damn_ him. Him and his hero complex. His kindness towards everyone. His confidence in himself. His courage to face whatever comes. The effort he...

Great good _fucking shit_.

It’s a revelation that I didn’t anticipate, knowing that the greater portion of my anxiety is fear that once he fucks me, now that the bond’s primed and ready to be settled, that he’ll change. I…can’t go back to being just another Sheik. Not now. Not after the life I’ve lead from the moment Eran died. I _can’t_. Not and still be true to myself, to Nayru, to the other bonds I’ve made to so many other people, admittedly less magical but no less consequential. I…am more than a Sheik. I cannot be reduced to it again and still be me.  I am less than a Sheik. No Sheik has ever been as defiled, as shamed, as much of a fucking disgusting mess as I am. Other candidates have been let go for a fraction of the mildest of my depravities, while those that have filled the office haven’t lived through my experiences.

I have to refuse him.  I have to. I don’t deserve him, and he surely has committed no sins bad enough to deserve being saddled with me.

“Yeah, that’s nice.” Forelock murmurs, and stomp-kicks the back of my knee, dropping me to the tiled floor. My woolgathering falls to shreds just like the skin on my knee and palms, but I have more pressing concerns than the thin trail of blood working its way towards the drain. “Let me stick it in you.” He cajoles, rubbing his ankle-spanker against my back.

Even if my failures mean I don’t deserve Link, I don’t want Forelock touching me at all, let alone like this. Even if he has a condom and the cash, which I sincerely doubt.

“Get off me!” I kick back, grazing his hip and making him laugh as he kneels on my calf and catches my thigh in his arm.

“Come on.” He pants. “Gimmie that tight little fuck hole. I’ll be quick.”

“No! Let go!” I roll, into him instead of away, and that startles him enough that I can get away, scrambling up against the wall, keeping my back to the hard surface.

“A discount then? Your clothing, one hundred rupees and my dick. Package deal.” He offers, scooping up the fabric to hold it away from me. If I lunge, I’d have to press against him to reach it, and that would just put me close enough for him to grab me again. Having evaded him once, denied him, he’d angry. Enraged. Flashing reds and sickly yellows dotted with carnivorous black. If he catches me again, I won’t get away. I won’t be able to, he’d hurt me that badly. I can see it in his grin.

“Give me my clothing and I won’t report you for assault.” Filling out the paperwork again won’t be difficult. I even have an A.R.G. officer who would believe me for once. My counteroffer doesn’t go over well. Point of fact, he laughs at it.

“I’ll trade you. You let me nut in your ass, here and now, and I’ll give you your clothing when I’m done and neither of us will talk about it or the video of you sucking off Groose ever again. It’d be a shame if the Princess’ husband’s bodyguard was a proven whore, after all.” He sneers. Blackmail.

He’s right, though. Mostly. A Sheik’s more than a simple bodyguard. We’re insurance. A life for a life, as needed. Right now I’m a charity case, and the backlash for Link even being _seen_ with me was bad enough. I can’t…he’s going to marry Princess Tetra no matter what. They deserve each other, and will be ridiculously happy together. I can’t destroy that…but I can’t let anyone else fuck me before the restored bond is set. Especially an opportunistic psychopath like Forelock. I can’t be tied to him. It would destroy me. The first he knows, and the second I can’t afford to let him know. He’d just go from coercion to outright rape, and with my history and that video, not to mention in the court of public opinion with the whole spook versus Hylian thing, no one would ever say I didn’t ask for it. That I didn’t deserve it, anyway. The best I can do is postpone the inevitable.

“Moonsday.” I offer, freezing my face and body with the ice water running in my veins to let nothing of my turmoil show. “Fourth floor Agriculture, men’s washroom. Eight o’clock.” Link has Kaepora then, while my first class doesn't start until ten. I can skip going to the track to recover, and be good to sit through Conjury 386, if horribly uncomfortable for the duration.

“Moonsday…” He nods. “…for your clothes. Lanasday for today. Freeday for the video.”

“Fine.” I grind out.  Sex for security. That’s nothing new. The difference is that I want both from Link, and need to give one to get one from Forelock.

“If you’re late, I post the whole thing on my Chirpings account.” He threatens, as if I’m not already subdued.

“Bring a condom.” I return. He snorts what I pray is an agreement.

“Here.” He throws my clothing at me, leaving me to catch what I can as he goes to jerk off in the showers. I dress as quickly as possible, and spend a good ten minutes dabbing at my skinned knee and palms with toilet paper to keep from bleeding on my nice new clothes, never having felt quite so much like a cheap, illegal whore. Even when Rusl started bringing his friends over while Sir Dorian looked the other way, it didn’t _feel_ nearly as filthy. Probably because I didn’t really have a choice, then, and no one else would be hurt by what I did, no matter what I ended up doing. Even if I ended up liking it.

I should, but I can’t refuse Link tonight. Not now. Not unless I want to be bonded to Forelock, who I’m not sure even has a title, let alone a connection to the Royal Family.  The Sheik aren’t for just anyone. Only those descended of Hylia Herself. To protect the guardian and wielder of the Triforce, passed down through the female line for countless generations. To be a friend, a support, and, if needed, to stand in their stead in the face of premature death. While I cannot be reduced to that again, it’s also still a part of me, and I can’t let it go, either, no matter how obscene my continued existence becomes.

Great job Kaya, getting yourself literally and metaphorically fucked. What’s next, finding the Master Sword’s resting place? That’s just what everyone needs, another Calamity.

“…overhead. It’s getting sloppy.” Link is clearly audible from the door to the showers.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll score on him soon, don’t worry!” The middle aged gentleman in too much green spandex and too little else flails his weapon around as he speaks, and I cautiously and quietly make my way to the other side of the locker room. At this distance, I’ll have a chance to dodge if he butterfingers at precisely the wrong moment. I’m not sure I’d take it. Maybe just enough to need stitches. Enough space to have the choice.

The choice to flee the locker room as it fills with a dozen – physically skilled, very fit, mostly Hylian, entirely naked – men, or go sit in the hall and wait with Forelock makes me want to vomit. My luck being absolute green-apple splatters shit, Link notices my withdrawal and corners me physically, which is as useful as tits on a nun. At least before he crowded me in I had the illusion of escape, and I liked it, damn it.

“You okay?” He asks, and if I could give a look as dirty as I wanted, he’d need more than a shower to even hope at getting clean. His lips twist into a grimace, so what I managed wasn’t half bad. “Obviously not. Let’s go.” I don’t mean to smack his hand away, want to curl into myself the moment I realize what I’ve done, but not with half the class still close enough to catch everything we say and do.

“Sorry.” I apologize instead, and really, really mean it. “Reflex.” As explanations go, it’s about the worst I could do, but still better than nothing.

“I know.” He says softly, eyes and lips narrowing like a smile but without any joy in the expression at all. “We can talk in the car. Come on.”

He barely takes the time to grab his jacket, shoving his arms in the sleeves as he stamps into his boots without bothering to undo the laces. It’s all I can do to keep a straight face as he breezes past Forelock who is waiting in the hall like a demented gargoyle. He mouths “Moondsay” at me as we pass, rubbing his cock through his pants, and I quickstep to stay the appropriate one step back and to the side of Lord Korokshire. Where I belong, and will one day deserve to be. Maybe. If I can stop being such an atomic fiasco.

The sun’s already setting, the air brisk and streetlamps on with enough moisture in the atmosphere that Korokshire will be shrouded in mist. It makes the ghosts there easier to see, or at least to notice in the whirling eddies and shifting light. Some people, just over a century ago, took their sudden increase in the ability to perceive as a portent, mistaking correlation, causation, and conscious recognition and conflating the lot into misty days being more likely to conjure spirits. They were wrong, of course – unless they’re repeaters, ghosts and spirits and other non-corporeal entities are always there – but the popular sentiment has stayed. It drives me batshit, but the refraction of light in suspended water particles makes my own magic much more effective.

Forelock won’t be able to follow us past the boundary of the salle doors. It will seem as though we’ve simply disappeared in the mists. Dispersing the Epona’s headlamp glare is child’s play, and the effort in letting the echo of her engine rumble out from three different locations ensures we get out of the lot cleanly. I can do nothing about the rumble that comes from Link’s stomach inside the car, however, so it’s a good thing I don’t need to. The response from my own says more than words alone could.

“Hungry?” He smiles, meaning it, never taking his eyes off the road. Thank Hylia for small favors. I don’t like the current visibility, and I know I can see more than he can. I don’t have a driver’s license though. They’re hard to get when you don’t have an address, let alone a vehicle to practice in or someone who’s willing to sign off on the insurance. It doesn’t look that difficult, but I don’t actually know if it is or not. Theory, not practice, like far too much of my current knowledge base.

“A bit.” I admit, and that smile turns into a grin. I’m not really hungry enough to eat – too nauseous for that – but I know I will be by the time we get anywhere. Now that Forelock’s not keeping my adrenal system spiking, the energy expenditure is hitting me like a hurricane, leaving an empty hole where my stomach used to be and a gaping maw somewhere much less physical.

“What do you feel like?” He asks, and I understand the question, but don’t know how to respond, so I go for staring at my knees like they hold the answer. He risks a glance in my direction when my silence is interrupted by his stomach growling. “Hey, I meant food. Are you craving anything specifically?” He clarifies, reaching out to put his hand on mine and tangling our fingers.

Comfort. Support. He’s so strange. I want…a lot of things. When it comes to food, all of them are high calorie, high carbohydrate, high protein, but that will make me sleepy as I process it. Recover from a harder workout than I’ve had in weeks, or push myself just a little longer so I can get a different kind of protein shake? I have four days before Moonsday, but really approximately one hundred and ten hours. That’s not nearly enough to reconcile anything. It’s been long enough for the need to control some aspect of my life and nausea to fade, however.

I’m hungry now. I can worry about cake or Calamity tomorrow.

“Pasta? With a hearty sauce of some kind?” I suggest. I’d like it, but I don’t want to overstep my authority and demand anything, especially when my standing in his household is so shaky and uncertain.

“Navi, call Nonna’s.” He says, enunciating his consonants clearly, and I hear the chime of the digital assistance program ring before it dials the requested number. It’s picked up on the third ring.

“Nonna’s Pasta, how can I help you?” A young woman asks.

“Is it possible to book a reservation for two in twenty minutes under von Hestu? Private room.”

_Si, signore_. Will you be needing menus this evening, or the usual?”

“Menus tonight, Miss Guchini, and lots of water.”

“ _Certo_. Your private room is reserved for seven o’clock.”

“Thank you.”

“Safe travels, _signore_.” The click of the line disconnecting seems loud, but the ensuing silence isn’t bad. Now that he has a destination in mind, there’s a faint hint of good humor on his lips, and rose-gold contentment wafts with the scent of his sweat to fill the car. After sleeping in the same bed for six nights running, it’s almost a comfort. He keeps his eyes on the road, which definitely is a comfort. I’d rather not crash, thanks, and visibility’s bad enough that I can see the glow of the streetlamps and the stoplights, but not the lamps or lights themselves. We’re going less than half the speed limit, but still get to where we’re going under the estimated time.

“This is Nonna’s Pasta.” He says as the Epona rumbles to a stop in what I hope is a parking spot and not the middle of the road. “Telma’s aunt runs it, though her great-grandma started it. Best pasta in town, c’mon.” I have to hustle to catch up, and know within half a breath of entering that I’m not going to have any problems with the food, staff, or clientele. Or rather, they won’t have any problems with me.

It’s a dive. If the benches and seats have been reupholstered in the last decade, I’ll eat my converter, chain and all. The corners of the Formica countertops have been worn smooth through to the plywood beneath, and the bar’s been in too many knife fights to count, losing every single one. The lighting’s dim to try and hide the wear and tear, and the tiles don’t all match, but it smells like the Sacred Realm, if the Sacred Realm loved garlic.

A chalkboard sign has today’s specials, with the chicken parmesan and pumpkin ravioli crossed out, and I wonder at the request for a private room. The seating area’s small, and crammed full of tables with barely enough space for the wait staff to squeeze between if they think skinny thoughts…but for all the age and cramped space, it’s clean. I see business people, what is clearly a gang, two sets of lovers, an old lady’s birthday party with what I hope to Din is the whole clan gathered, plus three other families with tiny people that are too small to feed themselves, and four Zora that could be friends or classmates talking loudly in the corner booth by a small misting fountain. There’s only one Hylian in the joint, and I’m standing slightly behind him.

“Ah, welcome!” The same woman that spoke on the phone greets, and she’s older than I thought. Entirely Human, her salt and pepper hair is braided tightly enough to make me wince, and she snags up two menus as she approaches. “ _Signore_ von Hestu and, oh, a new guest?” She takes in my spook face like it’s just another patron’s, and from the rest of the clientele, that’s not a far off assessment. One of the gang members has more tattoos on his arm than I have triggers.

“Yes, Miss Guchini.” Link nods. “This is Sheik Kaya Lurelin, please treat him well.”

“As if I can do anything else.” She laughs, then thwaps his chest with the menus. “He is so skinny though! You should have brought him sooner! Aiya, maman will roast me alive if you are not feeding him right. Come! Your room.” She tosses her head like some sort of spirited horse, complete with a heavy huff through the nose that’s almost too soft to be a snort.

I like her, immediately. She reminds me a little of what _bedstemor_ Purah must have been like before tragedy let the crazy take over.

I like the dim hallway she leads us down a lot less, but appreciate that the door locks from the inside. There’s no windows, but there is a second door with a softly glowing exit sign above it for an escape should I need it. I don’t think I will. At least, not from my company. Despite there being just the two of us, the table’s big enough to seat a dozen easily, sixteen if you don’t mind bumping elbows. Benches against the wall with small tables next to them give space for a lot more, though there are just candles and small packaged candies on them. A single stall toilet sits behind a wooden door in the corner. It takes a minor eternity for our hostess to clear the extra place settings and leave us with the menus, though she returns quickly enough that I barely have time to skim my options.

Farore…there are no prices listed.

“Have we made a selection?” She asks me first, not flinching at the tattoo or the hair or the wrappings or the skin or eyes or any of it. The water she brought me has a cucumber slice in it, a pitcher with more besides, and I didn’t even have to ask.

“The cannelloni, please. Lamb.” I barely remember to specify what type of meat, though my selection seems to please her if the colors in the smile she gives me is any indication.

“The usual, sir?” She asks Link, and he shakes his head.

“Not tonight, well, not exactly. Tell Nonna to go easy.” He tells her. “But otherwise, yes.”

“Five or six?”

“Six.” He nods firmly, and she glances at me like the men at Ikana leer – or like she’s sizing me up for her stew pot – and I refuse to respond. It doesn’t bother her, and she trots off happy as a cat with the whole damn pitcher of cream, leaving us alone.

I’m not as dumb as I look, and can infer that he eats here regularly enough that his preferences are known to the staff as a whole.  The rest of it makes no sense immediately, but I’m patient. It’ll all come to light soon enough.

“This is a good place.” He murmurs so that I have to strain to hear him, then leans forward to rest his elbows on the table. “We should talk.”

Shit.

“About?” There’s so much we should talk about, I don’t want to talk about, things we don’t need to talk about, and could talk about that he needs to be more specific than that. It’s like saying the sky is blue. Duh.

“Why you’re scared all the time. I won’t hurt you if I can at all help it. Don’t you trust me?”

Well fuck, if that isn’t opening a can of expired surstromming, I don’t know what is. There’s no way to answer him, though I can answer his question.

“I trust you.” I do. About as far as I can throw him, which – given the size of explosion I can produce now that my magic’s back up to snuff – is pretty damn far. I don’t even care that he’s deliberately trying to gain my approval, because I’ve seen the way he interacts with his staff, with strangers, with friends, and with people he doesn’t particularly like. I haven’t seen him with anyone he hates, but I’m pretty sure he’d be nice to them, too. He’s fucking weird like that. He just looks at me like he’s taking my response with a grain of salt and it stuck in his throat.

He’s as basic as a primer, easy to read in short words with big letters and simple sentences. Even if I were entirely aether-blind, I’d be able to see him work through my honest response step by step. First, that choking face like he’s expecting me to lie about it and can’t catch me at it. Doubt and confusion and that’s peachy fucking keen. Asking me if I trust him and then not trusting my response. He hasn’t caught on that you can deflect with the truth just as easily as with a fabrication, and if I’m lucky, he never will.

Of course, my luck is mostly used up on just surviving, and even that could use some work. At least I still have all my toes.

“If it’s not me, then it’s something else.” He muses, gears turning hard enough I can almost smell the burning grease. “Something…or someone?” The muted greens blossom around his heart as he thinks hard and comes to both the right and the wrong conclusion. “Who was it?” He growls, and of course a little bell chimes from the doorway and makes me jump. My yelp just added veracity to my surprise and his assessment. He stares at me for a moment more before heading to what I thought was a simple – if handsomely carved – side table and lifts the top, pulling out a bowl of mixed nuts and dried fruit.

“When did you order that?” I blurt out like I’m the kind of idiot I normally disparage, and then remember he ordered his usual. That must be a part of it, because I can’t see him being satisfied with just a small bowl of tree gonads.

“Six courses. This is the first, _antipasto_. I get nuts and dried fruit because I don’t like olives or pickles much, and salted meat is bad for your cholesterol.” He explains, putting the bowl down between us. “Dig in.”

Six courses. Good and gracious Hylia. “How long are we going to be here?”

“That depends on how long it takes you to answer my questions.” He says, and crunches through what I think is a walnut, but might have been a pecan. I wasn’t paying close enough attention. At least I know now he’s not allergic, that’s a death I wouldn’t wish on anyone. “Generally, two to three hours for the first five courses. _Antipasto_ , though Nonna doesn’t distinguish between that and the _aperitivo_ and sends both up at the same time if you want. Second course is the _primo_ , where you’ll have your cannelloni. The _secondo_ and the _contorno_ will come at the same time, followed by an _insalata_ , and then _dolce_ , or dessert.” He ticks each off on his fingers.

“That’s only five. You ordered six.” I remind him when he stops talking and starts picking at the nuts and fruit again.

“My father - well, his secretary - brought me here because of the sixth course they offer.” He says, quietly enough I have to lean in again just to hear him, and he puts an almond to my mouth with a faint smile that grows into a real one as I take the bait. “The public eye can be…cruel. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” He sighs.

“Did you learn which utensil to use at each course here, so you wouldn’t be an eternal embarrassment to your entire family in public by using the salad fork to eat your steak?” I tease, and he wrinkles his nose and feeds me a hazelnut before replying.

“It takes a long time to eat, because you spend as much or more time talking as you do eating. I fully intend for you to eat at least a bite of everything, no matter how long it takes.” He tries to be stern, but the laughing yellows and bright greens and soft, rosy pinks tell a different story. A Brazil nut keeps me chewing. “The private rooms, where no one knows what happens inside of them, where you can bring anyone, for as long as you need, are because the sixth course is _il rapporti sessuali_ , sexual intercourse.”

Oh. That…makes a lot of sense. The wide, backless couches against the wall, the faintly musky scent beneath the roasted garlic, thick carpet, dim lighting, and I’m pretty sure now that the “candies” in the bowls are no such thing, though they very well might be flavored. More sugary shit. Why can’t ribbed condoms taste like ribs?

“I wasn’t really interested in the professional he hired, though she did teach me a lot.” He continues. “But this is where Tetra and I first…and then when she and Malon got together, though the three of us have only been _three_ either at home or in Tetra’s apartments.” He blushes.

“No wonder you didn’t care that they’re fucking. You knew. You…” I take the time to swallow the last traces of nutmeat and other pieces from that morning and afternoon click into place. “…want me to get along with them because you’re all fucking and, and just how many is all? _All?_ ” I didn’t catch anything that would say that Niko or Senza or Zuko were in on it, but the traces fade within a few days and Saints and Sages that means Tetra and Malon were playing fur-traders while Senza and I distracted a Hinox. By the fucking Three, if he expects me to…

“Just the three of us!” He protests. “Senza knows because she’s sharp and figured it out. Claree because she’s with Tetra all the time. Niko because he’s horribly unfortunate and clumsy as well as sweet. Nudge is scary in tune with Tetra and somehow just knew…probably through Gonzo, because he notices everything. You…you’re the first man I’ve ever been really interested in like that, or at least that I felt I could act on it with, and I wanted this to be special.” His face goes red enough to burst a vein, and I’m pretty sure mine’s not far behind. “But I _know_ you don’t like being cornered so I didn’t want to plan anything, and when you said pasta I thought of here and…and now I think I might have made a mistake. Like the diner. Except with you, and I don’t want to make any mistakes with you.” He gasps, and of course he’s winded. He doesn’t talk this much, ever, let alone about things that he’s obviously emotional about.

He’s emotional about this, enough that it’s affecting his habits, changing his behaviors. He brought me to the same place where he and Princess Tetra first fucked…then Lady Malon. Equating me with them, when I’m nowhere _near_ as well matched as either of them are with him. Drawing love and lust together like they’re somehow related. Fuck if he isn’t putting good gravy over a shit biscuit. He’s emotional about this, about me, about _us_.

It just grates my balls that I am, too. Fucking _Calamity_. What do I do now? What does…well, it’s pretty fucking clear what he wants.  Forelock’s blackmail will be taken care of as long as I can get that video. Grand Master Impa can go suck a frog for all the help she’s been with these Thrice damned markings. Princess Tetra is obviously already building her consorts with no issues, so fuck it. Fuck it all. I want to be his Sheik. I want him. He’s gone to the trouble to arrange for a nice meal in a private setting, and just wants me to answer a few questions. I might as well go along with what has to be the weirdest job interview ever, and I know all about Kafei’s stint as a carnival mascot.

“The only mistake you’ve made with me is not _telling_ me anything.” I start, sitting back with a scant handful of the nut and fruit mix. “You’re the Hylian here, so talk. For each question you answer to my satisfaction, I’ll take off an article of clothing.” Might as well make things interesting, after all.

“A question for a question? Same deal.” He returns.  That’s fair.

“Done.” I agree, leaning back into my chair and biting into a nut. They are pecans, not walnuts.

“Who frightened you so badly at the salle, and why?” He starts. I keep the flinch from my face, but dammit, it’s going to be a fucking _long_ couple hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @YoiteMichaelis: sorry not sorry. I hear breathing exercises help. :p


	16. Penetrating Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone who is still reading at this point has perused the warnings, yes? ...

I hide my dismay behind another bite of some of the most tender beef stew I’ve yet to have from Nonna’s kitchen, juggling my grip on his waist to keep from dripping any of the gravy on either of us. By Hylia’s constant vigil, I had no idea. I simply can’t conceptualize it, it’s that foreign to me. If it were anyone else telling me these things, I’d be hard pressed to believe them, and yet…from him at least, I can. I don’t understand it, but I can believe it. I’ve witnessed firsthand some of it. Apparently some of the tamer portions. Goddess. At least my appellation is keeping me from reacting too much to his proximity.

An hour ago having him in my lap would have tried my restraint. Now, I just want to clutch at his skin, hold him close, cover him, to hide him away from a world that’s very different from the one I’ve lived in. It’s not because he’s Sheikah, or at least, not entirely. It’s more than just that. Some of it is just _how_ spooky he looks. Some of it’s his size. Some of it’s his intelligence, and the inability to entirely conceal it. A good portion of it is that damned unfulfilled bond. I had no idea that the same things I find normal and even pleasurable he finds trying, and am doubly thankful for Senza’s presence during our shopping trip. Unfortunately, he’s right that the mark on his face is going to make people notice him even more now, but I did ask.

“…Goddesses had to paint a target on me for every racist fuck in the country to take potshots.” He grumbles. I think that since he can’t hide it, he might as well show it off, but I don’t live in the same world he does even though we share an address.  Yet he still came with me that first day, holding _actual_ suspicions of rape and murder, but he came. He risked so much, on the thinnest amount of hope, all because I wanted him to eat something. I will be worthy of that, will earn his trust, and continue to feed him as long as he’ll stay. I have to, if I want to live with myself. I cut another bite of beef with my fork and bring it to his lips, taking way more satisfaction from his acceptance than I really should. The Eye on his face is the same color as the inner circle of his irises, a deep and warm red that I get to see on the rare occasion he’ll look me in the eye.

“Has it changed anything about who you are?” I ask him, and he snorts, chewing as he thinks before replying. I finish the last bite as he swallows.

“Not changed, exactly. I just can’t hide anymore, and sometimes it’s easier not to have to deal with people. I’m still mostly the same person I was before.”

“Mostly?” I prompt, and can’t resist using the excuse of a bit of sauce on his lip to lean in and lick at it, which leads easily into kissing him. He’s getting used to it now, not pulling away or reaching for clothing to remove, but it’s still not quite what I want. I don’t know exactly what that is, just that this isn’t it, even if it’s good and I like it. “Wait a minute.” I breathe as he breaks contact, putting my fork down to cup his cheek and kiss him softly, gently, no more than a brushing of mouths. That’s…better. Sort of. There’s some urgency, like with Malon, but he’s not aggressive about it. He doesn’t kiss like Tetra does, either. She’s confident and in control. It leaves me awkwardly trying different things to figure it out, including kissing along his jaw. He smiles at the second one, laughing into the fifth.

“Trying to distract me so you can keep your shirt?” He teases, his own already draped over the back of an unused chair, our jackets on one of the padded benches. I can see that the creepy moving tattoo hasn’t shifted since I last checked a few minutes ago, but there’s one more petal facing the other way since the last time I saw it, this one on his left pectoral.

“Is it working?” I ask. Not that I mind losing the shirt, but it doesn’t hurt my ego if my kisses are effective enough to have him lose his train of thought.

“Not hardly. Of course I’ve changed, but it’s correlational, not causational. I’m more confident in myself than I was before. I’m trying to be nicer.” He sighs. “No one ever stays the same without stagnating, so I’d rather direct the inevitable changes in my personality instead of becoming someone I’d hate.” He says, red eyes serious and shimmering and of course I have to kiss him again because of it. With tongue, to make certain that we’ve finished this course. Three down, and I already want to skip to the last, but he needs the food. I’d survive without it, even though I’d be hungry and cranky later, but he’s so thin it scares me. I can count his ribs, and see his hips at the top of his jeans, and I shouldn’t be able to. Not if he weighed enough. So I’ll feed him until he doesn’t resemble a walking skeleton.

Fortunately, that’s the only thing about him, personally, that scares me at this point. It doesn’t keep me from being scared _for_ him, but I’m not scared _of_ him anymore.  I don’t know if that makes me a fool or not, because there are so many things that he could do that would be just awful for me, for us, for Tetra and I, for Malon, for my friends, for the staff, and for the general populace. Circumventing his converter for instance, now that it’s T.A.R.G.E.T. issue and not some off brand, second-hand, sale bin find lets him use a wider range of magic faster and easier. He could drown a kindergarten class quicker than he did the Gohma.  But he won’t. I trust that he won’t. It wouldn’t even cross his mind. I wonder what it says about me that it crossed mine.

“So? Shirt. Off.” He demands, his breath hot against my skin.

“Fine, fine.” I grin, and obey. He answered my question fully. If taking off my shirt’s all I have to do to get his eyes to light up like that, to see that smile, hear the indrawn breath, well, I’m going to be shirtless a lot more often. I like it when people stare, it’s one of the reasons I make sure to eat right and exercise. I like it when he stares even more. “Your turn.”

“Um. Turnabout is fair play, right?” He bites his lip, and I refrain from sucking it out of his mouth so I can answer.

“Of course. I won’t even count that as your question.” I tease, and he snorts out half of a laugh.

“Thanks.” The sarcasm in his voice is heavy enough I’m pretty sure the staff in the kitchen below us could catch it through the sound proofing.

“You’re most welcome.” I grin, and peck his chin. “Come on, let me up so I can signal the next course.”

“Got it.” He volunteers, scooping up the dirty plate and leaving my lap cold.

“Thanks.” I murmur, appreciating the view. He glides when he walks. Soft, nearly silently, placing the empty dish in the right side of the service and pushing the button before closing the lid. He sighs, and turns to lean against the service instead of coming back to my lap. I wait for his question, and he takes his time thinking of one. Not that I blame him, I took my time too. It’s been nearly an hour already since Mrs. Guchini closed the door, and this is only his second question. The sooner I answer it, the sooner I can get him to let down his hair.

“What are you scared of? And don’t just say spiders, I think that’s been pretty well covered.” He asks. Given that he’s had to expose some of his deepest fears and their causes, it’s fair. I just don’t know how to answer it in a way that will satisfy him.

“Spiders, obviously.” I nod, even if they weren’t really much of one until two days ago. “Though I don’t really like beetles either. Lots of things, really, but they’re inconsequential, and I get the feeling that you want to know what my nightmares are made of.”

“I do.” He agrees. “You know most of mine, now.”

“Most?” He has more?

“My question.” He reminds me. “Talk.”

What am I scared of? If I’m being honest with myself, quite a bit. Spiders and beetles and dark places and needles are just the more common, everyday kinds of scared. I’d avoid them if I could, but they only disconcert me, they don’t make me do more than hesitate. I startle at jump scares in horror movies, and gore still makes me flinch, but that’s not a true fear. War and famine and the inevitable heat death of the universe are so detached from my daily life that, while they’re scary, it’s an abstract fear. 

Disease, though, that scares me. It’s a good place to start.

“I…” My voice cracks, making him look at me directly again and that doesn’t really help. Having him sit in the chair next to me instead of across from me like he was before I had him in my lap does. Not touching, just being there, and listening. “I’m scared of getting sick. Like my mom. She…” Goddess, even though I’ve talked about it with friends, with the staff that’s more family than my father ever was, with Tetra who’s the family that will be, telling him has me shaking. I suppose that’s the point. “…she just…faded. Disappeared a breath at a time, until what was left wasn’t…my mom.”

At least it was remarkably fast. Two years from diagnosis to where she didn’t know who I was, another few months where she couldn’t feed herself, and then…

“Link.” Sheik croons in an attempt to soothe me, but I need to get it out, and not just because he asked.

“The doctors say her heart just…stopped. In her sleep. It wasn’t painful.” My jaw twitches with the strain of keeping my face still. I didn’t manage it during the funeral, but I’ve had years of practice since. He shifts closer, which doesn’t help.

“It wasn’t painful _for her_.” Sheik says with deliberate emphasis. “For you, though, it’s _still_ painful, like a scar on your heart that pulls and itches to this day.” His head lists to the side as he studies me, comes to a decision, and takes my hand. “She does not linger here, this I pledge to you. Of all Korokshire’s ghosts, hers is not among them.”

“What?” I croak, startled, and he smiles ruefully.

“She has moved on, so if you must cling to something, let it be the love she felt for you and the joys you shared instead of the sorrow of her final days.” He says, squeezing my hand in his. “Never doubt that you were her precious son, and that she loved you dearly.”

“How would you know?” It’s nothing that Telma hasn’t told me a thousand times, nothing that Tetra’s reminded me of twice as often, but coming from him, it’s different. He’s only known me for a handful of days, and he never met her. There aren’t even that many videos of us together for him to have studied, and no time for him to have seen the ones that do exist. I don’t mean to be rude, but he’s either trying to placate me in the spookiest way possible, or toying with me. I’d know if Korokshire was haunted.

“I see it, clear as day.” He says, tapping his temple with his free hand. “The truth’s pretty obvious in this case, even a half-trained baboon would know that _someone_ cared for you as a child. And it wouldn’t even take a half-trained baboon to know that it wasn’t your father. I am a fully trained Sheik, Lord Lincoln Fitzherbert von Hestu, and being able to judge someone and discern their mood is part of the job.”

“Then what am I feeling right now?” I challenge him, if he’s got me that figured out already it should be simple.

“A lot of things. Mostly, you’re calling me out to distract from your own confusion, pain, and denial, but you’re also pleased about something, annoyed at something else, skeptical over yet something else, and aching as you have been from the moment you thought of your mother, all tinted with a hint of arousal that’s been there since I took off my shirt.  Now, you’re stunned. And embarrassed. Oh, defiance, that’s fun. There we go, glad I have your validation.” He lists as each response rises and falls within me. Accurately, too.

“You’ve made your point.” I grumble, even though I am impressed.

“My point is that there’s fear in you, manifesting as anger, and you don’t let enough of it out.” He says, and the service dings and lights up with the next course, making him stand and go to it to retrieve the second last dish. Lifting the lid, he pulls out an arugula salad and carries it to the table as he speaks. “It will take time, obviously, but as your Sheik, I’d like you to trust me with that part of you as well as the pleasant, sociable, and overly kind asshole part. Thus, my question. What scares you so badly that it motivates you to be so fucking nice all the time?” He reiterates, and drops the plate in front of me hard enough that a few pine nuts and a shaving of parmesan cheese fall to the tablecloth.

He’s close enough to grab, so I do, and pull him back into my lap. It makes him tense until I shift my grip from a hug to a loose grasp around his hips. I rest my forehead against his back – getting a face full of hair – and he sighs, taking my hand from his side and putting a fork into it. The correct fork for the _insalata_ course, too.

“You have to eat some.” I remind him, and wait for him to start, even if he picks up one of the tumbled pine nuts with his fingers – and only one – sucking the small seed into his mouth in a way that reminds me he’s very, very good at sucking.

“There. I had some. Make like a pipeline and spill.” He leans back just enough to let me know he’ll stay, and that helps, too.

“I…people. People scare me.” That feels right. “Not like they scare you. I don’t…I don’t feel like anyone’s going to murder me, or hurt me physically. I trust strangers. The people I meet on the street. I haven’t really had cause not to.  I’m scared of that trust being broken. Of not deserving it, because I’ve done something bad or failed somehow. I worry about it a lot.”

“You don’t owe strangers shit, let alone your worry. That’s a misuse of imagination.” He complains.

“What about people I do know? I’m responsible for so many people’s livelihood and happiness.” I counter. That much I’ve had drilled into me since before I can remember. I’m responsible for them, even if what bothers them isn’t really my fault.

“Everyone’s responsible for their own happiness, though I’ll give you the livelihood bit.” He nods, and eats another pine nut. “But worry isn’t fear. They’re related, but not the same. You’re getting closer though, so keep yakking.”

“I’m afraid of failure.”

“That’s broad as a Goron’s ass.” He snorts. “Narrow it down.”

“I’m afraid of failure in my responsibilities.”

“And?” The warmth in his tone is colored with approval, and I grin at him to show I don’t really mean my reply.

“Shut up, I’m having a revelation here.”

“Shutting up as long as you don’t. See?” He takes a mouthful of green leaves and a part of a heart of palm and chews slowly.

“I feel the need to protect people I care about...” That much I’ve known for a while. It’s part of who _I_ want to be. “…and so I am afraid of…of…not being able to. Of failing to do so, I…I’m terrified I won’t even get the chance.”

“Like with your mom.” Sheik nods, swallowing his bite of salad and waving his fork in front of himself like he’s directing an orchestra. “You saw her suffering, and couldn’t do anything about it, and loved her dearly, so you wanted to. Same with your friends. You protect them from the things that could hurt them as best you can. Duchess Senza’s self-expression. Lord Niko’s awkwardness and innocence. Lord Zuko’s time. Lady Mako’s structure. Your lovers get even more of that. Lady Malon’s need for control. Princess Tetra’s drive.”

“Your poverty.” I breathe into the side of his neck.

“We were talking about your lovers, not your staff, though you’re pretty intense with them, too.” He tries to evade my observation, and I bite at the point where his shoulder becomes his neck. Not hard, but enough that when I trace the area with my tongue it raises the fine hairs on the back of his neck and makes him breathe deeper.

“We’ve made love.” I remind him.

“We fucked.” He counters, but doesn’t pull away as I taste his skin, tilting his head to give me better access.

“I wouldn’t mind being your lover.” I whisper, lifting his bound braid from between us to drape over my shoulder.

“You can fuck me whenever you want.” He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say no.”

“…but would you say yes?” I ask, and still, waiting for his response.

I’m not expecting him to arch his back, spread his legs, and grind down on my lap, even though I really should have been from the way his heart’s pounding. If he makes any sound I can’t hear it over my own startled moan, deep and rough and guttural, though I can feel his laughter through his back. It’s faded to an amused smirk that I can’t help but kiss once I run out of air, and disappears entirely when I close my eyes and breathe him in. His mouth is so soft against mine, and doesn’t move far when he does decide to speak.

“Please, don’t ask that of me right now. I’ve had a rough week, and I can’t…I’m not capable of making any other significant or long term decisions for at _least_ another week.” He begs, and I really should _not_ enjoy that wavering tone as much as I do. “Being a Sheik again, being _your_ Sheik particularly, is…is…fuck. I’m excited and terrified in damn near equal measure, and _both_ those things make me so fucking horny that I’d bend over for a fist from your fiancé’s girlfriend.”

“She still wants pictures.” I murmur, reaching around to check if he’s actually into this or trying to distract me. He’s not entirely soft, but nowhere near as hard as I am.  “Are you okay with that?” I have to ask, given how frightened he is of the man he calls Forelock’s blackmail video, though he wouldn’t tell me what was on it. I didn’t think it was worth using a question on, but perhaps I should have.

“You know her better than I do...” He huffs, rocking in a way that’s probably proscribed if not entirely illegal. “…and she’s _your_ girlfriend. I’m just a spook whore hoping to make rent.”

“You’re my Sheik.” I growl, and he stills. “ _Mine_.”

“Not yet.” He reminds me. “Didn’t we come here to fix that?”

“We came here because you wanted pasta, and Nonna’s pasta is the best in Castletown.” I remind him, unable to keep my hips from rocking up against him now that he’s no longer moving. “ _Insalata_ , then _dolce_.” It’s a monumental effort to stop what I’m doing and pick up my fork again, but I do it.

“I’m not hungry.” He groans. “The cannelloni was fantastic, but more than enough.”

“ _Insalata._ Then _dolce_. You have to eat at least some of both.” I insist. “Keep your energy up. You’re going to need it.”

“Is that a promise, or a threat?” He asks, but picks up his own fork again and goes for some of the arugula and another heart of palm.

“Yes.” I grin, because he’s eating and finally relaxing and I want to tease a smile out of him at least once a day now that I know I can.

“Oooh, scary.” The words are muffled around his mouthful until he finishes chewing and swallows. “Speaking of which, if you want to get my pants off, you’re going to have to answer my question.” He reminds me.

“I’d rather you took off your hair wrap.” I admit, giving in. “But your satisfaction is my highest priority right now. So…I’m going to have to think about it for a bit.”

“Hn. While you think, I’m going to use the washroom.” He stands up, careful of my erection, and disappears behind a closed door, leaving me to think and pick at the light salad. It’s definitely easier to ponder important questions without his scent in my nose and his warmth, his weight, in my lap. What am I afraid of? Why does he want to know?

He’s so anxious it could simply be reassurance, but I doubt it. If he wanted that, he would have indicated it. Instead, he connected my fear to me being kind to others. Given how clearly he can read my mood, there has to be something to the observation. In that context, what am I afraid of? Failure to protect the people I’m responsible for didn’t satisfy him, and I can’t think of anything that scares me more than that. I don’t simply _want_ to keep the people I love safe and happy, I _need_ to. As much as I need to eat. To breathe.

Why? Why am I so scared of that particular failure? If I _didn’t_ keep them safe, what would happen? They’d be hurt, and disappointed, but most of them would forgive me, I think. Tetra would. Malon would. Niko might not, but…none of them _expect_ me to protect them in the first place. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself, but that’s on me. My responsibility, not theirs.

What if they couldn’t forgive me? I don’t think I’d do anything so heinous as to incur that level of animosity, unless they couldn’t forgive me because they died from whatever I couldn’t protect them from, just like mom. Then I’d be all alone.

Completely alone.

Sheik’s taking an awfully long time in there.

It’s late enough that Tetra will be done supper - even if it was a full court dinner - at this point. I shoot her a quick text to make sure a call would be acceptable, and put the remains of the salad in the dirty side of the service to queue dessert while I wait both for a response from her and for Sheik to finish. What’s taking so long?

My phone buzzes, but it’s not a text or incoming call. A reminder that I have a massage on my bed in ten minutes with Sheik pops up on my screen, and I’m an idiot. He’s…getting ready. For me. Now that I know what some of that entails, he’s not taking too long at all, and Tetra’s just getting to her apartments. She calls as soon as she’s there. It’s not soon enough, and I answer before the first ring finishes chiming.

“Hey babe, what’s going on?” She asks.

“I…Sheik asked me a rather uncomfortable question, and I just needed to hear your voice.” I croak, and listen to her tell me about her day. What she did, how her studying is going, and what her plans are for the rest of the week.

“I would have liked to make a trip to the Sherfin hot springs, but with all the monster reports, travel is not recommended.” She laments.

“My monster disposal track record’s not too bad, all told. I could go with you.” I offer.

“Go with who?” Sheik asks softly, hair loose and falling to just above his ankles in thick, even waves. I knew it was insanely long, but knowing just how long satisfies a curiosity I didn’t know was so intense.

“Tetra.” I end up interrupting her to respond to him, and immediately feel guilty about it. “Sorry, love, Sheik was wondering who I was talking to.”

“Give me to him, I want to tell him something.” It sounds serious.

“She wants to talk to you.” I tell him, and see his eyes widen.

“Me? Why?” He squeaks. I shrug.

“I don’t know. Here.” He has a choice to either take my phone or drop it, and fortunately he takes it.

“G…good evening, your Highness. Yes, Princess Tetra. Of course. No, not yet. Nonna’s Pasta, directly after practice. Fantastic. The lamb cannelloni. Yes. Yes, he did. Yes. I do. I will. _Ya svaevar_.” While he talks to my future wife, the service chime rings and I retrieve the two tiny tartufo along with a bath sheet, a series of hand towels, and lubricant. Flavored. Cherry-vanilla, to go with the tartufo, which is good because I fully intend to at least try pleasing him. “Dessert. Yes. I…the lighting’s bad, here. Too dark. Of course. I’m certain. Yes. Yes, your Hi…Princess Tetra. One moment.” Wordlessly, he hands me back my phone and goes to the bench next to the table with the dessert.

“The tartufo are here, and everything I need for the sixth course as well, unless there are objections?” I know she’s had Mako and Gonzo looking into Sheik’s history, and her discussion with Grand Master Impa took almost six hours. If there’s anything that would make him unsuitable, it’s the looming threat of manslaughter charges in Eran’s death, but a royal pardon would take care of that…if it came from the King. That there are people willing to blame a twelve year old trainee not present at the time for an accidental death sickens me, but there are, and even if it doesn’t happen, we need to be ready for it.

“No objections, though confirmation would be appreciated once it’s official.” She requests, and that’s reasonable. I’ll have to talk to Telma as well, to see what kind of pay grade Korokshire can offer. I have him in with the seasonal workers right now, but a lifetime position is an entirely different prospect.

“I’ll send you the paperwork.”  I agree as Sheik lays the bath sheet across the bench, fiddling with the fabric until it drapes just right while his pulse betrays his nervousness. I hope nerves are all that are sending his heart racing.

“Oh, I don’t mean paperwork. Malon wants a picture, and I have to admit to being curious myself.” Tetra chuckles. “The forms can wait. Go on, now. Eat. Then you can tell me how he tastes.”

“Tetra!” I can feel my face heat, and Sheik looks at me side-eyed through the curtain of his hair.

“Talk to you tomorrow.” She chortles, and hangs up, leaving me not only with permission, but deliberate instructions. I end my side of the call and take the half dozen steps I need to be close enough to touch, listening to his heart pound.

“We had a deal. I want your pants off.” I tell him, and he gasps in a way that tells me I should say that type of thing more often. The intensity of it surprises me more than the reaction itself, and I momentarily forget why I can’t just take them off myself. Hooking my fingers in the belt-loops, I tug him closer, wrapping my arm around his waist beneath the flowing mane of gold. The ridge of his hip against my forearm is warm, and as I run my fingers beneath his waistband I get nothing but skin.

“Wait.” He pants, swallowing a whimper. Not pulling away, but not touching me back, either. He’s shivering. Afraid. It’s enough to let me think again. Instead of yanking on the last of his clothing and confirming every fear he’s got, I use my grip to pull him into a hug. Wrap my arms around his slender form to feel him shudder from shoulder to knee. Tuck his head against my neck, just like the way he naturally shifts at night. Breathe in the scent of him, salle shower soap and all.

“We had a deal.” I repeat, whispering into his hair. “I’m afraid of being alone.”

“You’re not alone.” He responds instantly, and I know he can feel me nod.

“I’m not, because it scares me so much I purposefully go out of my way so I won’t be. I’m kind, so people like me, and I won’t be. I couldn’t…I need people, Kaya.” His name on my lips makes his arms tighten around my waist as he presses his bones against me. He’s still trembling, still scared, but aroused. I don’t know which is more important, or even if one is more important than the other.

“You have them. Link, people _love_ you. Haven’t you been paying attention to the Chirps about your engagement? To a princess of the blood?” He snorts. “Saints and Sages, your friends would walk barefoot through Death Mountain’s crater for you. Your staff would crawl across broken glass if you asked. Even your ghosts watch over you, for fuck’s sake. You’re too disgustingly perfect.”

“They’re not here, though. Tetra’s busy a lot of the time. Malon is a nine hour drive away. Everyone has their own lives to live, things they need to do.” I wouldn’t ask them not to, they wouldn’t be who they are otherwise. Having him next to me this last week has only made me realize how _much_ I need other people, how isolated I can be, how important…a Sheik is. To anyone, really, but to a ruler especially, if only for stability. “I just feel…lonely.”

He lifts his head off my shoulder and pulls away enough to look me in the eye. The small difference in our heights means he has to look up, ever so slightly, and I resist the urge to kiss him with everything I have so he can find whatever it is he’s searching for. I know it happens when he smiles, and leans in to kiss me instead. It’s soft, and sweet, and so much gentler than I could have hoped to expect that I don’t want it to end. He’s so tender that it takes me a handful of heartbeats to realize it has.

“You daft spoon.” The soft chuckle starts in his eyes before breaking out of his mouth in a grin. “Here.” With a quick twist, he picks up one of the tartufo with his fingers and pops it in my mouth, wiping away the moisture on the left side of my face that I hadn’t noticed as I chew. The chocolate shell barely contains nearly melted ice cream, and the tart cherry center is firm like his lips when I kiss him back, harder.

“Dessert?” I ask.

“I’m satisfied.” His hands leave my face and drop to his pants, which drop to the floor. “Now it’s time for you to have me.” Nimble fingers dance along my zipper, and I catch them before he gets a good grip on me.

“You need to have one, too.” He has to have a bite of each course. I _am_ going to insist on it.

“Fine.” He groans, but turns to the plate anyway, picking up the other tartufo before deliberately pitching it behind the bench. “Oops.”

“Sheik.” I chide, and stalk towards the confection, intent on having him eat at least the side that didn’t hit the floor.

“I got it.” The words come out in a rush that’s only a millisecond slower than he is as he kneels on the floor to lay over the heavily padded, towel covered bench. The dessert disappears quickly, and he swallows with more gusto than any food calls for, moaning loudly. “Mmm, cherry. One for me…” His slender fingers reach around to part the small curves of his buttocks. “…and one for you.”

He definitely did some preparation in the washroom while I was on the phone. If the lack of underwear that I know he had at the salle wasn’t enough of a clue, the faint glistening of lubricant that lets him slide two fingers into himself with ease confirms it. Not wanting to stain my sweats as well as my underwear, I drop both and kneel behind him, replacing his fingers with my own. Mine are wider, and with the other hand I check whether or not I’ll be able to put my late night research into practice.

“Mmm, you don’t need to jerk me off. I’m okay. Just put it in me. Make me yours.” He squirms, showing me that despite other indicators, he’s actually more than okay. Still.

“I want to taste you.” He’s not soft, and while I don’t doubt his assessment or intent, I think we can do better than the bare minimum.

“I…uh. Okay.” My request throws him, but not for long, even if he’s not as confident getting on the bench so I can bend my head for him as he was presenting himself to receive me. He holds his knees up and out to give me space as I shuffle closer, inhale, and try something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...because some of those warnings come into play next chapter.


	17. Alignment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> /tosses confetti with the warnings printed on them everywhere

Link blows, pardon the euphemism. Or sucks. Whichever. He’s not even halfway decent at giving head, that’s for damn sure. It’s horrible, and he keeps trying too hard to take too much too fast, which makes him gag and bite down, and _that’s_ about the worst thing he could do. I’m sweating, and it’s not because I like this. My discomfiture with having him even trying probably doesn’t help. It’s all I can do to hold still and let him make the attempt, because he really, really wants to try, and I really, really want him to not even think about it ever again.

“Huuuagh.” He gags. Again. And bites down enough that I can count his fucking teeth before he remembers not to. Pants, then gags again, and he’s got less than half of me in his mouth. Not that I’m at all hard anymore. He almost blew chunks on the first trip down, and hasn’t gotten any better with each attempt after despite detailed instruction. I’m done, with a perfect eleven out of ten score on the nope scale. I tug his hair hard enough that he needs to follow or be scalped, and he follows.

Face flushed, spit everywhere, tears in the corners of his eyes, gasping. Determined. Not fun. Not good. Not at all what I was expecting or wanting. Stubborn asshole. Before I can grab one of the cloths to clean that disaster up, he’s dropped down again and kissed my taint, making my thigh jerk against the side of his head, clipping his ear.

“Link, stop.” I plead as he noses against my balls. Snorts. Chokes a bit on the drool and mucus in his throat, shuddering. If he edges an upchuck one more time I might just echo the sentiment all over his hair, and that might get him to pay attention to me telling him to cut it out. Maybe if I roll off the edge he’ll listen, but not likely. I’d probably wind up with bruises across my thigh where he’s got his arm wrapped like the Molgera itself.

“Mmmhhkghmmm.” He hums, or tries to. Would have done it without the retch in the middle, the shithead. Then he sucks one of my balls _way_ too hard and I see stars in the bad way.

“OW, shit! Stop! Fuck, stop!” Thumping him on the back of the head frees my gonad to return to its full upright position, driving his face into the towel and I regret nothing. My poor sack. Not that I expected to make babies given my situation, but having the option would have been nice. Shit. Screw rolling off the bench, just curling in a ball sound damn fine right about now.

“Sheik?” He asks, mumbling into the towel. “I don’t think I’m very good at this.”

No fucking shit. I want to howl to the moon, but all that comes out is a soft, rasping “ow” that does nothing for my dignity or will to live. Careful not to jostle me, he sits up and grabs one of the cloths, wiping his mouth and chin and then spitting into it before sighing heavily. I squeeze my eyes and legs shut and try to ignore the pain, pushing it to the back of my mind where it sits, waiting to be acknowledged. If I can keep it there long enough, it’ll go away on its own. It always does. It just takes longer if there’s no pleasure to go along with it, no blurring of that line.

“I just wanted you to feel good before I…before we…before. I wasn’t expecting it to be that difficult.” He snorts humorlessly. “You made it look easy.”

“You…need to _listen_ …” I whine like the bitch I’m about to become, because Moonsday seems a lot closer now than it did two hours ago and my left nut fucking hurts. The private room, the locked door, the low lighting, Forelock’s threats, the responses on Midna’s threads, and the fact I don’t deserve any of the kindnesses he’s shown me don’t really help either. “…not just _hear_.”

“I…” He starts, and I can feel him shift on the bench to press against my hip and thigh, his arm landing like a punch by my side as his sleeping limbs make him lose his balance on the soft upholstery.

_Hold still boy, I’m almost done._

I don’t consciously remember putting two benches and another one of the little side tables between us, but I must have done it because there’s no way he could have and look like that. Wide-eyed as a Remlit and twice as adorable because of it. Not spooky at all. That’s me, shaking like a dog shitting razor blades and sweating like I’m standing in Death Mountain’s Crater. Fuck Kaya, you daft potato. This is Lincoln Von Hestu. He’s _not going to hurt you_. At least, not intentionally. Not maliciously. Not for entertainment. It was an accident. Not his fault you’re a broken piece of trash.

“I’m going to sit down, alright?” He asks, soft violets and blues obscuring the strong orange and scarlet urgency of just moments before, hands spread out, fingers wide. He doesn’t use them to crouch down or to stabilize himself as he takes a tailor’s seat, keeping them visible and lowering his head. Reminding me how easily he could physically overpower me, Din dammit.

It’ll be a long while before I can bring myself to blink – and sleeping will be a joy – but his sitting and doing dick all lets me breathe. Tremulously, but still better than before. If I’m breathing I’m less likely to pass out, and more likely to get him back on track and on my back. Have him fuck me so we can be as one, finishing this unresolved indenturing process. Just need to breathe, Kaya, and hold still. Let it happen.

The nausea gurgling its way up from my gullet has other ideas, and as I work on holding in my meal with everything I’ve got, my _domine_ sits there with all the aggression of a mushroom and lets me work through it. Rusl just held me down. Barnes pushed. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t talk, doesn’t call either the restaurant staff or the A.R.G. to deal with an uncooperative, violent spook, and doesn’t ignore me either.

He simply sits, and breathes. Letting me breathe in time with him. Giving me space, choice, and companionship. Always giving.

Fuck. I don’t deserve any of this.

I hate crying. Hate it like toothpaste hates oranges. Avoid it as much as possible, ‘cause it only makes the beatings worse. Compounds the physical with the emotional for an exponentially powerful blow, and yet here I am doing it in front of him. Pathetic. Control your fucking face, Kaya. Don’t let them know you’re hurt, it just makes them laugh – and hit – harder.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, and I can feel the warm wetness flowing down my cheeks when I shake my head. Like fuck do I want to talk while my brain is screaming at me to freeze, to stop, hide, disappear, do whatever it takes to not be noticed. Head down’s not good enough, Kaya-bitch, and you fucking know it. That only works when no one’s even seen you yet, and is no guarantee either. They’ll still kill you if the mood strikes.

Except…except he wouldn’t. Not unless you unquestionably deserve it, and the marks and signs of Resurgence pretty much proves you don’t. That you’ll be needed, if not wanted. Never wanted, but a hole’s a hole, and might as well be used while it’s there. Give it up, you _stupid_ spook.

“Alright.” He murmurs, and stays. Waiting, for as long as it takes me. Letting _me_ make that choice. Every single self-help book and advice column I’ve read on the subject says that’s the most effective means of dealing with panic attacks, but he’s the first one outside of Hanju’s stunned dithering to actually let me do it. It helps me refrain from having a 3D Technicolor review of supper all over the upholstery, and then helps my face stop leaking. Mostly.

Maybe Dr. Kayasa was right, and I should be on some kind of anxiety medication. Maybe. If my valid fears didn’t have a near perfect track record of coming to fruition, I might consider it. It’s not unreasonable to have conditioned survival responses to violence. It’s not paranoia if they really are after you, even if it’s not you in particular. Just everyone like you, all the time.

But he’s not.

He’s not.

“I’m here, when you’re ready. Take your time. We have all night. I’ll just stay here. I won’t move. I won’t leave. I won’t hurt you. I’m here. Breathe through it. You got this. I’m here.” The steady stream of words resolve into meaning as the swirling hues settle, leaving me to notice the faint itch of damaged skin across my chest. I don’t remember scraping it, but then again, I don’t know how I got from the middle of the room to the edge, either. It’s not bad enough to have drawn blood or even raise a welt, but…my markings are shifting. Lining up like they did right after my last Trial, when Impa restored the seal on…

Oh.

Oh, wow.

 

 

 

“Sheik!”

So much for not passing out, and thank Majora’s tender mercies for the fancy fuck-benches with enough padding to support a family of Yeti, or my landing would have been much more painful. With Link scurrying to my side like a cockroach on rush mushrooms and nothing hurting, there’s no apparent reason for me to be on the floor. Or naked. Well, I can think of a few reasons for me to be naked when my _domine_ is naked. Fuck, he’s shredded. I think his abs have abs.

“Permission to touch?” He asks, hero complex coming to the fore. Something put a load of scared in him, I’d recognize the signs of that anywhere.

“Of course.” If he needs physical contact to help, then as his Sheik, it’s my duty to provide it. He doesn’t need to ask. Whatever frightened him doesn’t explain my own surging adrenaline, endorphins, and enkephalins keeping me floating.  After eating enough to gag a goat, I should be sleepy. Instead, I’m mentally calm and physically tense and emotionally…numb…it’s probably all my fault. Whatever it was, I’m disassociating, even as my master kneels next to me and draws me into a crushing embrace worthy of a Goron, I don’t particularly care. He’s odd like that. I suppose it’s nice of him.

I don’t really hear what he says as he pets my hair. It’s loose, and that’s…that’s…I don’t know. Having it loose makes me feel more naked than just being naked and from all signs I unbound it myself. I should remember why, but I don’t, and I can’t bring myself to be concerned about it. He’s naked. I’m naked. His cock is hard, and my asshole’s all lubed up. I don’t want to serve Forelock until he kills me, and serving him would kill me as surely as a knife across the throat, literally and metaphorically speaking. Serving Link, though…I want to. I want to be everything he dreams I can be.

I still don’t dare reach for it – him – to get it, though. I’ve learned.

“You should fuck me.” I tell him. See his abs ripple as his dick twitches against my thigh, perking up at the thought. Mine’s dead, and my left testicle aches, but that doesn’t matter. It’s not like I need to be hard – or even want it – to get fucked. I can see myself shaking, but like I’m watching someone else. I don’t feel it, so I know whatever hit me falls into the category of stuff-it-down and block-it-out.

“No, I shouldn’t. You’re not, I mean, it just…and then.” I can’t make sense of his mutterings or the waving hands, but I don’t need to. I just need to look down and I can see perfectly fine.

The Gate Seal of the Silent Realm that _was_ around my shoulders isn’t any more. Instead, it’s fluttering like a Garo master’s three layered shroud and _writhing_ …and I can touch it. Smooth as charged silk, I draw it from my skin with a steady pull and the sensation of removing an ingrown hair sending something akin to an itch dragging across my torso. There’s a physical weight to the light, and when I blink the tears from my eyes I find I’m holding something I never thought to see outside of a divine revelation or spirit-walk. A vessel of spirit, allowing safe passage through the Silent Realms, solid and small and…a lot like the bracelet Impa wears on her right wrist.

I’m starting to get a glimpse of the whole picture, but still, what the entire fuck?

“What is that?” My almost-master asks, and reaches to touch, and then it’s too late. Magic pours from my core like blood from a gut wound and knocks me flat, taking Link with me into the darkness to be reborn in the light.

Having practice in each of the Three’s Realms, bearing their Tears, I have nothing to fear, and no evil can obscure my path. I wander with the Watchers, chasing away interlopers who would disturb the peace of the Goddesses, guiding Wanderers to the Luminous Way, and away from the Waking Waters that would destroy their souls. There aren’t many, and the ones that _are_ here are easy to spot in the calm stillness of diffused peace, settling like a decade of dust disturbed by sunbeams.

Time moves in circles, here, and as I jump from the umbral edges of one triskelion to the next I know I must either leave soon, or I risk staying, permanently. I did not come here of my own volition, have not performed the necessary ablutions to stay. I was pulled here, and that only happens for a reason. There is a need. One I failed to account for, and so must find. What I need is not where I was, in Din’s raging fires, nor is it in Nayru’s soothing waters, but ahead of me here, where Farore’s blossoms thrive.

The crisp herbaceous scent of crushed leaves and faint jangling chimes of the Guardians tell me my _domine_ is indeed here, and has awakened to the call of the Farore’s Silent Realm on his own. As I approach, the beacons alight with brilliant greens in every shade and clarity of emerald, showing me he has only six more Tears to gather. That number falls to four by the time I settle in to the branches of an ancient and enormous tree near the Gate to watch.

I was right. Here, in the most Sacred Trials of the Goddess of Courage, he can dance. No hesitation, complete confidence, utter joy in motion. It’s a pleasure to See him in his element, gliding from one fruit to the next as he makes his way to the next challenge, the next beacon, the next Tear. Oh, I remember struggling to even set out on the tightrope, yet he’s as surefooted as a mountain goat and twice as fast. Where I faltered on the vines, unable to trust them to take my weight without testing each handhold first, he takes that leap of faith and climbs. I could only vacillate between the roaming Watchers and the Waking Waters, knowing that either meant certain doom.  He braces, readies himself, gauging his stamina, and rushes through with impeccable timing.

One Tear left. I slide down the Spirit of a great Deku and go to stand in the circular Gate ward, the magic caressing me in a way that would call up harassment charges in any decent workplace. It shivers up under my skin like dozens of ghastly Gohma babies, making me clutch at my own vessel to remind myself this isn’t for me. I’ve completed these Trials. Twice. This is for him. I’m either the means to this end, or his reward at it.

It’s hard to remember that when he comes trotting into view, a vessel full of Tears in hand and a grin on his face that turns into laughter the second he sees me. Even though he’s tired, he finds the energy to break into a run, grabbing me with both hands and spinning us within the circle as my markings pulse and sing in time with our hearts.

_It’s dangerous to go alone. Take this._

I’ve never known with certainty if the voice that speaks on completion is that of the Goddess Herself, or simply a spirit of the Silent Realm like the Watchers, but the gifts that are bestowed are definitely inspired. I don’t know what Link receives, see nothing, furthering my suspicion that I am his intended prize, and isn’t that a laugh. Despite doing fuck all, I am gifted the ability to read the glyphs of the Gate itself, and receive it with open arms. As we fade from the Trial and return to our mortal forms, he catches my face in his strong hands and kisses me deeply, and I find myself for once thinking that this really is somewhere I’d like to stay forever.

Being physical again is always a bit of a shock and disappointment, but the pins and needles sensation quickly resolves itself into my _domine_ , my master, leaning over me and running his hands up and down my arms. I know without even having to look. Whatever else I’m feeling, I _know_ that the bond – broken in shards for nearly half of my life – is complete. Like a dislocated joint snapped back into place, it stings, yet for the first time I can remember, I feel _right_. Except for the tingles.

“That feels weird.” I grumble, not really wanting to push him away or sit up but definitely wanting the faint brushes of his fingers to either firm up or fuck off.

“Your marks moved again.” He murmurs. “Look.” The hushed, almost reverent tone in his voice is incentive enough to open my eyes, and good shit is he hot. There’s nothing I can do about my sudden and decisive reaction to that damn fine face and delicious body except ignore it, and look at what he’s talking about.

The Gate Seal _has_ shifted, and changed colors. No longer a draping red shawl of lines across my shoulders, or hovering like forgotten epigenetics, it forms two bands of marks above my biceps. One consisting of the initial segmented petals just above the second of the glyphs of transference, both in a bright cornflower blue. The loftwing heraldry of the House of Hyrule has risen and spread to unfurl across my sternum entirely, still in the brilliant crimson red I have to assume continues to cover my face.

I can’t see the Triforce on my nape, but that one isn’t as much of a concern. I’ve been Nayru’s for almost as long as I’ve been capable of conscious devotion.

“That’s my reward for completing the Trial.” That, and the ability to create Gates myself, should I have the necessary tools. Not permanent ones, like the Trials, but temporary ones that will last as long as my energy holds and I’m pretty sure I stay awake and at least partially focused. No more being stuck in a cell if I don’t want to be. It’s such a relief that I’d piss my pants, if I had any on and if I had to piss. Instead, with the moisture between my legs being lube and my _domine_ looming over me, I know what to do. Hitching my hips over gets them square with his, and grabbing my knees gets me all lined up. “Here’s yours.” I can see his pupils dilate as his body thrums in renewed interest.

“Sheik, you don’t need to…” He starts, because he’s thicker than two short planks. The wood he’s got is twice as firm and definitely good for a poke. I’m ready to be stabbed, and yet he’s hesitating. Still.  

“Hey, listen!” Interrupting one’s _domine_ just is not done, but enough is enough. I’ve had it. I want it. Nayru knows how I want it. “I. Enjoy. Being. Fucked.” I snarl, wrapping my legs around his waist and grabbing his arms to yank him on top of me. “I enjoy being fucked _hard_ , and Din damn it, I _want_ you to be the one doing the fucking.”

“Sheik…” I should have expected him to kiss me, and with all the skill he has sucking the breath from my lungs you’d think he’d be better at sucking the life from my balls. I can feel his erection pressing against me though, and as long as he stays excellent at giving me _that_ , I can live with it. A few well-placed smacks, and I can live happily. I’ll even learn to deal with the excessive spit swapping. “…is the bond finished?” He breaks away long enough to ask.

“Oh my fucking Goddesses _yes,_ you daft spoon! Can’t you see it?” The way our colors pulse in time with each other, bleeding into and overlapping into a spectacular kaleidoscope of color is enough to make me dizzy. Giddy, if I focus on it too long. Elated. If I weren’t aching for his touch as much as he’s hot for mine, I might be willing to wait long enough to get on the bench. Maybe. He’s so hot. Literally and metaphorically. Fuck.

“I can’t.” He admits, mashing our dicks together gracelessly as his weight settles on top of me. “Just…Sheik, you…ah.” He pants, grabbing us both in one hand and using the other to balance. Stroking.

“Good fuck!” Gasping, I arch into the touch hard enough to lift us both, and he grunts through his grin and strokes faster.

“Like that, do you?” He purrs, the arrogant prick.

“I, ngh! Shit!” Losing track of everything but the feeling of him pressing me into the carpet means I might have made some utterly indecent sounds loud enough to be heard next door, and I couldn’t really give a damn. He either hasn’t learned that I can’t control my mouth, doesn’t care, or enjoys it. He’s pleased about something, the spoon, and then does the thing again, making my legs spasm around his waist. That gets him to stop and adjust himself, and gives me time to whimper when his hand disappears from where it was stroking us both. Stoking the fire.

“Mm, yeah.” He pants, pulling up and away and off and I don’t like that at all, especially the pathetic whining it draws from the back of my throat. Fucker has the audacity to laugh. “Hold on a sec. Just…let me…there we go.” Grunting as he manhandles my thighs from around his waist to splayed out as far as they’ll go with my knees bent means he can crawl back over me and put his entire weight behind his thrusts. And kiss me, fairly eating at my mouth.

It blocks some of the noisy yowling from my throat, but not all of it. Just enough to be incoherent babble instead of the words I have for him as he rolls his entire body against mine. I grab at his arms, his shoulders, his sides, anything I can reach to get him to move just a bit lower. Give my guts a stir. He’s stronger than I am, though. Heavier. Thicker, and just a touch longer. With his weight on our hips and doing the horizontal tango, his arms are free. He uses them to grab mine and pin them next to my head, and that’s good. That’s real good.

Be better if he’d brace across my throat long enough for me to see stars. Instead, he slows down the tempo of my writhing by using his entire body to hold me still. Or as still as possible with his hips rocking like that, driving his dick against the hollow of my belly. I want it rubbing me internally, not externally. I know he can do it. I’m close enough that even the tip stretching me open will be enough to achieve my purpose. Being rammed open would give me the little death I desire. I want it _so bad_. A bit of pain, to go with the heat, the friction, the control…

“Sheik. Mm. Yeah.” Breaking away from my lips and letting me gasp in air to lick my throat, he lets go of my wrist and tugs on my hair for more of it when the first taste isn’t enough. Neither is the second, and that travels from my collarbone to the tip of my chin. My litany of mewling doesn’t distract him from his goal of driving me insane instead of driving me into the floor. “You taste so good.” He murmurs, hot air blowing over saliva moistened skin right before he bites down.

Hard.

I jerk, limbs flailing like a Zora hatchling’s first steps on land, grinding us together and giving me both the stars and the moon. The good ones. Holy Hylia, _yes_. Reaching for Her, for Her child and all he offers, he draws me out with everything I have to give. Air, tears, cum, words, soul. All of it.

“Hm. Heh. Welcome back.” The words are filled with the flesh of my throat and give me something to focus on aside from the after-shocks of having my world rocked as my master finishes giving me another set of marks. They’ll fade much faster than the red and blue that already mark my skin, but last longer than the streaks and dots of white spattered up my stomach and his. Those are already drying out and making us stick together, reminding me of one of the reasons I usually insist on condoms.

There’s not a lot there, though I’m surprised I could cum at all from nothing more than jerking off with someone to talk to. Usually that takes parallel parking the hot dog stands, and not always even then. From the look of things there’s one more sausage that needs a bun.

Sold.

In a minute. It’s been a day, and I need a second to get my brain back in gear with the rest of me. My limbs don’t seem to want to obey. Being nailed is normally a weekend activity, so despite Lanasday being referred to as hump-day, it’s only in the sense of the work-week. I’ve never had a nine to five. Never will, either. Not with being Link’s Sheik. Technically I’m on call now twenty-four seven three sixty-five until the day I die of it. If this is going to be a regular activity, Calamity, what a way to go. The drag of my master’s cock against my stomach tugs me back into giving him the relief he needs, and to the grossness of my mess between us.

“Ngh. Goddesses, I’m going to need a shower.” I mutter to myself, and of course he hears it and is listening, the fucking jerk.

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “I’ll help you wash.” The sudden lack of heat and pressure isn’t what I expected as he kneels back and shows me his dick is as erect as it can be, pointing straight up and engorged with blood.

“Not _now._ ” My exasperation peeks out in my tone, but gets him to stop trying to stand up and grab the cloths. Maybe moving would be good, if only to prevent my rug-burn from achieving ignition. The nice fluffy towel’s still waiting, after all. “Come on, up.” Rolling to my feet, I’m careful not to show the redness of my back to him as I pull him to the bench and snag a packet of lube.

“Sheik, what are you doing?” I may not be Hylian, but even I can hear the hope in his voice.

“I’m lying down on this nice upholstered surface…” I inform him as I try and get comfortable on the narrow bench, tucking a pillow under my hips. “…opening the bank, and going heels to Hylia in hopes of a deposit.” The lube packet’s tiny, and my hands are still shaking from my orgasm, so I fumble it.

“Let me.” The rumble that comes from deep in his chest resonates through my entire body, helping me to relax as he opens the seal and smears his fingers with the contents. He starts with two, knowing already that I can take it. I want it so bad that I use every trick in my book to calm down and let the stretch happen, and it still takes too damn long. I did well in the washroom though, his hand is clean as a whistle after pressing three knuckle deep. Not deep enough, since he keeps poking close enough to my prostate to make me think I’m good for another shot while my balls refuse to respond at all.

That cock should be just right to prod them into action, as soon as he gives it to me.

“Fuck, put it in me.” I gasp, and Saints and Sages but it seems his patience has finally run out because for once he doesn’t argue. Just bends and cleans his hand on one of the cloths. My asshole clenches in anticipation, and I know he notices because it’s his turn to fumble, dropping the condom to the floor before it’s out of the package. I catch his hand as he bends to grab it and tug.

“Sheik?” He whines. He’s been hard so long. I’d whine too. Pretty sure I already did my fair share of whining. It’s his turn.

“I already need a shower, just fuck me.” As nasty as carrying around an ass full of spunk is, and as disgusting as I find having to clean it out after, I know that Rusl, Barnes, and my ride to Castletown all said it felt amazing to be able to shoot a load inside. Link hasn’t said it, but from the way his eyes light up and then smolder, I know he thinks so, too. For a look like that, I’ll deal with the mess and the stomach ache.

I know he’s starting to _trust_ me as well as believe me, because he takes me at my word. He’s learned a bit of what I like, though with the evidence still decorating my stomach it’d be hard not to figure it out.  Instead of crooning, caressing, and kissing me like he’s been trying to do since we met, he straddles the bench and grabs the back of my knees to hook them over his shoulders. Firm, direct, and to the point. Controlling, but not coercing. Demanding in a way I can definitely get behind as long as he gets in my behind.

“Fuck me, Din _damn_ you.” I wanted to snarl, but it comes out as more of a sob. Fuck. So close, so Goddess damned close to putting me in my place, and he’s moving like this is a senior’s stroll in the park. His control of himself is stupidly good. Barnes, Danpe, even Kahti would be finished with me already, and he hasn’t even started. He’s so hard that even with me held up and bent nearly in half, he has to hold his dick down to line it up. I catch a sinful smirk cross his lips as he grunts, and shoves forward.

And then he’s inside me, and I’m wailing like a Re-dead as he gasps out my name. Not my title. My name. Another grunt and shove and I get the rest of it, feel his short and curlies tangle with mine. Then he’s moving. His hands drop to my hips, holding me where he wants me as he pounds me flat and it’s all I can do to hang on to the bench. Take the ferocious rut that cores me out and leaves me hollow just long enough to be filled again. The burning push of being stretched around his pleasure leaves me breathless. I can’t even scream, and I would, if only to thank whatever Goddess he holds dear for the ride of my life. Good and holy _fuck_.

From this angle, his cock curving the wrong way inside of me, my prostate doesn’t get the excitement it normally does when I get a good dicking, and it hasn’t been long enough since I came for me to really get the most out of it. I wasn’t expecting to, despite him hitting damn near every one of my deviant desires.

Yet, when he spasms, thighs twitching, balls pumping, dick jerking around hard enough for some good old internal bruising, he slams against that tiny bundle of nerves hard enough that I can’t tell if it hurts or feels good, only that I’m cumming again. Dry and shocked, twitching as though I’ve been electrocuted long after the initial explosion wipes everything out.

“Oh, _Goddess_.” He whimpers, utterly spent. I know the feeling. It’s all I can do to relax my legs evenly so he settles on top of me instead of falling off the bench.

I have no idea how long he lays there, panting, slowly softening inside of me, nor do I care. Every breath sends my nerves singing, focus stuttering. Awash with all-natural, organic, preservative free happy-juice direct from my brain to my brain as a present to me, it takes him pulling up, off, and out of me to remind me that the happy-juice isn’t all I’ve been inundated with. A hand between my cheeks tells me that I should call my insurance agent, because my basement is _flooded_.

"Holy _Hylia_ , Link! Are you trying to populate a city?!” I gripe as I feel the towel beneath me soaking up his massive load. It pours over my fingers, and just when I think it’s finally slowing down I remember to push and, guess what, get another sticky batch of baby-batter decorating my darkest recesses.

At least Princess Tetra won’t have any trouble continuing the family line.

Oh my Golden Goddesses.

“Oh…” The breathy groan lets me contemplate my master instead of the semen utterly saturating my sphincter, and at least someone’s pleased about the situation. He swallows hard, and drops a hand to dig around in his discarded pants, pulling out his slate. I know what he’s going to ask even before his blush gives it away.

Ah, fuck. I might as well let him keep both of his girlfriends happy. It doesn’t hurt me, at least, not in the bad way. Having him hold me closely, tight enough to bruise as he marks me as his… He can hurt me like this any time he wants, even if it means that not one, but both of my balls are sore and aching. My ass too. The less said about my back, the better.

“May I, uh…” He blushes harder, holding up his slate with the camera on.

“For the good of the kingdom.” I snort, and pose like a porn star as best I can without actually having to move too much. I probably can’t keep all of my revulsion off my face when another smaller stream of cooling jizz trickles out of me, but that’s why the Goddesses invented showers. And then baths. And Epsom salts.  I already know I’m going to need all three, and probably some sort of salve for my back. That’s not all sweat and cum making the towel stick to my skin. Now that the got-fucked high is starting to wear off, I hurt. More than I anticipated, even at my most eager.

Link finishes taking his photos and sending them to his ladies as I lie there and wonder if it’s possible to be the first known case of interracial pregnancy between two men, or if I’m just going to be a sloppy mess staining his Epona’s upholstery like I’ve stained the pillow all the way back to Korokshire. There aren’t enough cloths in the world to take care of this mess, and I have no idea if Nonna’s has a wet-vac we could borrow. I’m not sure how I’d ask.

All I do know is that the bond between us is working as it should, it was fucking worth it, and that I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised you will be finding confetti littered throughout the remaining chapters.


	18. Expanded Equilibrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wider the base, the more stability achieved.

“Thank you, Ulli.” Dismissing my maid with a grin, I put the parcel next to Sheik’s half empty coffee mug and get a raised eyebrow in return. I could have waited the few seconds it will take him to finish chewing, but then he’d have refused. Since I’ve let go of the box, he’ll feel obligated to pick it up, therefore accepting it. The raised eyebrow tells me I’m not fooling anyone, that he’ll take it, and he’s annoyed by the fact. Out of all of the benefits that weird little dream-trip thing gave us, I think affirming the damn bond is the best, because I no longer have to guess at his subtle half-expressions. I _know_. And he’s _interesting_. Amusing. Delightful. Exasperating.

The sex is pretty great too, I’m not going to lie. Not to, around, or about him, because he’ll know, and be disappointed. He’d try to hide it, like he hides everything that hurts him, but I’ll _know_. It’s one of the first things I figured out…after. I knew he was sore when I took May’s pictures by the way he was moving, but not how bad his rug-burn was. Now – with his torso wrapped in bandages from after we got back last night, arms and legs covered in cloth, and his braid bound up with the string of beads again – he must feel like one of the ancient pre-Gerudo burials beneath their Temples in the desert.

The cushion on the seat-back to keep him from aggravating his abrasions pushes him closer to the table than he usually sits, which means he doesn’t have to bend to reach the package, still damp from the early morning fog. “Go on, open it.” I urge, unable to keep still, squirming in anticipation. It’s almost as good as getting a present myself, minus the surprise factor but adding in more satisfaction than is prudent to express.

“What in Farore’s green growth did you do now?” He mutters, leaving his spoon in the oatmeal in order to exchange it for his butter knife to break through the tape. He sounds pretty irritated – and is, probably more at the gift itself than the interruption – but buried beneath that is a surprised joy that he’s working very hard to conceal.

“Nothing much.” I shrug, hiding my smile by dropping my eyes, and go back to my waffle. Cardboard and air packets keep the surface of the slate I ordered for him pristine, and the specs sheet he pulls out puts his other eyebrow next to the first. It’s not top of the line, but it’s far, far better than the one he had been using before it was destroyed.

“Link…” He whispers as I make sure to get every bit of whipped cream on my fork. A full mouth keeps me from asking what’s wrong – why he feels some odd kind of obligation – when he puts the package and slate back on the table and stands up – and I have to swallow thickly at how beautiful he is – but doesn’t really stop him from straddling my lap. “…thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I murmur, dropping my utensils to hitch him closer and kiss him, with more than a little interest flavoring his response. Forty-five minutes later, more than a little sticky and incredibly satisfied, we rinse off in the shower and I get to return to my news as he first starts charging and then keys his slate to himself, and begins loading the Runes he’ll be using. All in all, not a bad way to start the morning, though once classes start up again I don’t want to have to wake up forty-five minutes earlier to get to campus on time.

I do want to eat breakfast with him though, every day, no matter what. Once the elevator is fixed and the construction crew can start on renovating the room next to mine, I’ll have to ask what he wants done with it. The awkward tension of having him in my space is gone with the coercive call of his open bond, and that means I have no external excuse as to why I want to take him back to bed at quarter after eight in the morning. I don’t…feel this way about Tetra, or Malon, and it confuses me. I love them both. I’m engaged to Tetra. She’s still my best friend, lover, partner, and princess, and I adore being with her…but she doesn’t inspire this type of insatiable lust.  He does, and it baffles me, because I’ve never looked at another guy the way I find myself looking at him, even now.

To keep from being consumed by the soft lilt of his voice as he mutters at his textbooks, the scratch of his pen on paper, the faint hum of our slates, I turn on the television. I missed HNN and CTTV’s hourly reports, and have a choice between hearing the Keaton Report’s incredibly biased Traditionalist segment or an Ancient Encyclopedia special on the ongoing archaeological dig in the Necluda mountain range. I’d like to tune in to the Ancient Encyclopedia special, but the captioned description of the Keaton Report tells me I’d best pay attention to that instead.

While a commercial for Lord of Diamond’s skin cream plays I take the time to attempt at organizing my own homework so I’ll be able to get to it during the next commercial break and then focus entirely on it after the program until lunch. Maybe. I might need a break or two, if the Hateno Codices are still giving me trouble. The entire History pile gets tucked under the Codices and stuck on the far corner of the coffee table so I can haul my binder of Sociology readings closer, and then the intro theme plays and I settle in for an uncomfortable quarter hour.

“Welcome back. I’m Dethl Zol, and this is the Keaton Report. As we were discussing, there is a suspicious level of activity from creatures that could be considered monstrous occurring all over Hyrule, particularly in areas where our overly tolerant, weak willed Royals have allowed the rot on civilized society to spread. That’s right. This taint on the purity of the good people of Hyrule have been allowed, no, _encouraged_ , to spread filth and contamination into every aspect of our lives.” As far as introductory diatribes go, it isn’t Dethl’s best. About average, though his spittle spewing is usually mostly over at this point in the program. It never entirely ends, since that’s what gets him his ratings.

“Why do you watch this crap?” Sheik asks, papers rustling, the tilt of his head tempting me to cross the couch cushions and taste the skin of his neck just one more time.

“Perspective.” As disagreeable as I find a lot of Traditionalist talking points, their motivations are the same as mine. Protect what you love. I don’t go inventing enemies, though, especially not for an imaginary war, nor do I love only myself and power.

“You already know what it’s like inside an asshole.” He snorts. “If you needed a reminder, you could have bent me over the table.”

“Maybe later.” The blow-job he gave me was enough to hold me at least until lunch, but I can definitely get behind the idea, pun intended. I can start getting back into my regular routine tomorrow.

“Promises, promises.” He sighs, but goes back to his readings without so much as twitching in that direction.

“…spook agenda. Who better to call up monsters from the Dark Realm than the self-proclaimed shadow-dwellers? They’ve already got to the youngest Royal through her fiancé, Lincoln von Hestu, the simple bastard. Just three days ago the same spook that instigated the appearance of a Wizzrobe in a grocery store was witnessed fleeing the scene of a Gohma attack in Korokshire Manor. Two days before that, he was seen summoning a Hinox in a crowded mall!” Dethl shouts at the camera, and I feel sick. The footage from the Savingway, the smeared glyphs on the plexiglass in the mall, and a few seconds of Sheik shaking in the E.M.T.’s grip as they took him to the ambulance have all been cut together to look…bad. Very bad. They all have clear shots of his face.

“Can you turn that off?” He grumbles, but I need to know.

“A Keaton Report investigator has discovered that the Spook Queen Impa has been using this particular agent against the Royal family for decades! Not only has he cost honest tax-payers hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage over the last week in repeated attempts to publically murder Lord Korokshire, but he is also directly responsible for Prince Eran’s death! Acting on subversive programming, this spook has…” The television goes dark, and for a second I don’t understand.

Sheik’s pale face, strained breathing, and rapid pulse brings everything back. Thanks to the strangeness of the bond giving me knowledge of him that I shouldn’t have yet, I know that if I were to touch him now, it wouldn’t help his anxiety and might make him bolt. The impulse to do it anyway has me standing up before I catch myself and forcibly back myself down. It’s the right thing to do. He won’t run as long as I don’t give the impression I’ll give chase.

“Hey, we both know it’s not true.” I try to reassure him. “He’s just trying to get ratings.” The Keaton Report fairly lives off of inflammatory segments designed to get people to respond without thinking, usually with anger. It works remarkably well, given how angry most of their content makes me. They’re the only news program that keeps a running tally of comments in the lower right hand of the screen that I know of. I’m graced with a glance from brilliant red eyes that drop to the floor the second he realizes I know he’s looking at me, and he takes a deep breath to calm himself down without any interference on my part.

“The truth is the truth doesn’t matter.” The bitterness in his tone surprises me almost as much as his words, given the near panic still pouring off of him. “Not when people want something to be true badly enough that they ignore or reject reality. Everyone who watches that show as their primary source of information is going to think they have a reasonable excuse for their animosity at best, and murder me where I stand at worst, thanks to him.” He’s shaking, and holding his own arms to keep from showing it. It’s not a full blown panic attack, but he’s definitely exaggerating because of his upset. I would too, if I were even half as scared.

“No they won’t.” I disagree, trying to get him to think instead of react. Most of Dethl’s viewers will forget all about it in seven minutes at the end of the program. His lips firm before he glances up at me again and turns abruptly back to his slate.

I take the remote back and turn the television on to catch the end of the segment, but it’s already concluded and Dethl has moved on to how the Zora continue to use more than their fair share of Hyrule’s fresh water. It’s ridiculous in the extreme, seeing as the treaties we have with the Zora Royal family clearly denote all freshwater lakes, streams, and sources are the domain of the Zora themselves, and the non-Zora peoples are simply allowed to use them in exchange for certain amenities and considerations. Those treaties have been in place almost as long as Hyrule has been a country.

Eight thirty can’t come fast enough, when the Keaton Report changes to The Sociables, where middle aged women gossip about fashion and fads, sounding like so many cooped up cuccos. Not the type of background noise I prefer when studying, and while I search for a channel with some appropriate white noise Sheik’s slate finishes the first set of Rune downloads. The distinctive droplet sound convinces me I’m going to need something a little more intense than usual, and I queue a series of Indigo-Go sets to play until ten, burying myself in my readings.

The sudden silence leaves my ears ringing when the loop stops right after the bass drops in their second album’s remix edition, breaking my concentration and getting me to notice that it truly is silence. Sheik’s gone, somewhere between the end of my Sociology reading and the introduction to Goron faith systems for Nima’s class. With two paragraphs left, I finish the chapter section I’ve been working on and close the text with a sigh. I should take a break, if only to clear my head for the Codices. Tea would be good, and knowing where my Sheik has gotten to. The first I can call the kitchen for, the second I can call directly. He picks up on the third ring, sounding breathless.

“What?” He pants. Something clatters, thin and wooden, and he curses under his breath low enough that I can’t make out the words, only the tone. His irritation is clear enough.

“Where are you?” He can’t have gotten far, it’s only been an hour at most, and it sounds indoors.

“Cleaning out your Chapel.” The thin wooden clatter sounds again, accompanied by a wet splash. “It’s a disgrace.” His grumble is expected, and almost a relief. If he’s grumpy, then he’s no longer scared, forgetting about the Report almost as quickly as the people that actually believe in it wholeheartedly.

“Why?” I ask. No one has used the Chapel in years, not since my mother got sick, and she only used it for storage. It’s too small to hold meetings, and too awkward to get to for informal gatherings. Even the shape of it is strange, and it always smells like the fire that gutted it and killed my maternal uncle many times over nearly two hundred years ago. There’s no electricity, no running water, no heat, no air conditioning, and the only light comes from skylights in the ceiling. The cool, dry, darkness is perfect for storing paper and paintings that no one wants displayed, but are still worth holding on to.

“I need to.” He tells me, and that doesn’t explain anything. I feel a headache start between my eyes, and pinch the bridge of my nose to ward it off.

“Why?” I ask again, hoping for a clearer response.

“ _Forthi min domine isa en chyet’tir.“_ He snarls, and hangs up. Now that I’ve confirmed he’s annoyed with me in particular, I call for tea and coffee with a small snack to be delivered. While I’m waiting, I text, and then call Tetra when she gives me permission.

“Hey babe.” She greets, laughter in her voice and a delight to hear. “Did you break Kaya?” The tease is meant in jest, but hits a little too close to home for my comfort.

“Maybe?” I admit. He was awfully upset to be cursing in the ancient tongue. At least, I assume he was cursing. I only recognized one word out of the lot, and know that when he uses “ _domine”_ it means he’s talking about me.

“Does he need medical attention?” Serious and stern, it takes me a moment to work through her statement, and then I can feel my face heat from my fluster.

“No! Not…Tetra! I’m not _that_ bad!” I have a horrible thought. “…am I?” Have I hurt her? I try to be careful whenever we’re intimate, and she usually directs me pretty well.

“You’re just very energetic...” She hums. “…and he’s so thin he only has one side. While the picture marking your, ahem, _success_ was appreciated, I was concerned.”

“He’s fine.” I insist, and have to qualify. “Mostly fine. A little bit of rug burn is all.”

“You wouldn’t have called over a little bit of rug burn. What did you do, to “maybe” break your Sheik in the first twenty-four hours?”

“I don’t know.” I sigh. “Is Claree with you?”

“Except for her classes, always. Just like Kaya will be with you now. You know that.” She murmurs. “What’s wrong, babe?”

“Can you ask her what “for thimin domine isa enchyet tir” means?” I request, reproducing the individual syllables as best I can, with a cadence as close to the one he used as I can manage around the unfamiliar terms. I listen to her repeat them, and the faint sounds of a small conversation, before she brings her phone up again.

“She says that depending on context it can mean a couple things, all hinging around whether he was calling you a heretic, a liar, or an ignorant fool.” My fiancée growls. “Link, what did you _do_?”

“I honestly don’t know...” None of those options seem better than the others. “…but I intend to find out.”

“Keep me updated.” She orders, and I nod.

“Of course. Talk to you in a bit.” I promise.

“Good luck.” With her benediction secured, I disconnect the call and wait for the tray to arrive, doctoring my tea in haste and setting off for the Chapel as quickly as I can manage without spilling. That gets a lot more difficult the closer I get, because the doorway is nearly sealed off with boxes covered in dust and handprints. They’re all older than I am, and clearly from the space in front of the alcove with an abstract Goddess statue painted mostly blue. Hylia-as-Sky Goddess, then, instead of Her aspects of Warrior Maiden or First Mother.

Despite the floor being damp from a recent mopping, Sheik, smudged with dirt and disheveled, is kneeling on the bare stone of the floor before it, hands clasped in prayer. It would be rude to interrupt, no matter how badly we need to talk, and so I wait for him to finish his devotions before clearing my throat.

“Go away, Link.” He tells me, the words lacking any force. He just sounds tired, and perhaps a little sad. My fault, as well as my responsibility.

“No.” I refuse, and get a soft sigh in return.

“I apologize for disrupting your studies and taking you from your routines. I’ll move the boxes back and then return to your rooms as soon as I’ve finished to receive my punishment.” He tells me, eyes trained on the floor.

“Sheik, no. I don’t…” This is getting nowhere, and every word I say makes him retreat further into himself. With a grimace, I stop pushing, and start to pull instead. “I brought us a snack. Come, take tea with me.” It’s not meant as an order, but he responds like it is, meekly coming to stand next to me until I put the tray on a box that’s relatively clean so I can sit on another. I’ll need to change my pants, and he’ll probably need to shower again, but he sits. Takes the coffee. Sips. My tea is lukewarm, and I resist the urge to gulp it down and get back to doing something else. I’m doing what I need to be right now.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs into his half-empty mug when he figures out that I’m not moving. What he feels he needs to be sorry for, I don’t know. Hopefully calling me names I don’t understand, but probably not. I’m pretty sure the name calling would come in any language.

“Eat.” I return, making sure that he finishes at least one apple slice or cheddar cheese cube for every one that I take. He obeys. Again, in as much silence as apple slices allow.

“May I return to my cleaning, or did you want me in your rooms immediately?” He asks, still not looking at me. Still quiet. Still contemplative. Still sad.

“I want you to tell me when you go somewhere.” I compromise between demanding he explain his sullen silence and forbidding him to leave my side, only noticing the sullenness has disappeared with the food, leaving him fidgeting in his normal state of anxiety. With a sigh, I stand and pick up the tray. “When you’re done here, either come back or text me where you are, but make sure to be in the Great Hall for lunch at noon.”

“Yes, sir.” He keeps his head down, and doesn’t move until I’m past the boxes in the door and hall. The soft whisper of fabric on stone tells me he’s kneeling again, and then I can’t hear anything over the construction crew in the elevator drilling into the cement. The kitchen staff takes my tray and quickly shuffles me out of their space so they can get lunch on the table in time, and I smell a rich bone broth that would have been started yesterday simmering. It gives me something to look forward to when I return to my rooms and the Codices.

There’s a rhythm to the reading, a pattern that I can follow, if only just. It’s still utterly boring and monotonous, and I find my mind drifting frequently to anything that seems even the slightest bit more stimulating. The ringing droplet noises from Sheik’s slate as more of his Runes load, the faint patter outside as the fog turns to rain, the way my mother’s engagement ring fit on Tetra’s finger. Perfectly.

Being her husband is a lot of responsibility, not only for my own behavior, but for public relations and both our staff populations. I’m going to need all the help I can get, and I’m lucky enough that I already know a number of people I can depend on who are capable of doing the intricate dance of manners and politics and still getting things done.

I need to focus. There are only two more days including today until the weekend, and then it’s back to classes. I want to be at least a week ahead in my readings, and have my paper done that’s due on Lanasday before then. That means working at it all day today, and most of tomorrow. While I don’t resent the interruption of my schedule that Sheik has caused, it has put me behind the goals I set for myself at the start of the year. If I want to attain the grades I’d like to have for my degree, then I have to do the work to get them.

The familiar weight of the Hateno Codices in my hand as I settle on the couch to read is almost a comforting ritual at this point, like the salute before I swing my sword at my opponent.

I certainly feel like my brain has taken a beating when my alarm rings to tell me to get myself downstairs and find a bowl of the soup that I smelled. My legs are half-asleep when I stand, and with the elevator still unusable I’m not late, but I’m not early either. The kids are already eating at their low tables with Salvatore and Kashiko keeping a close eye on things. Shad looks like he just woke up, while Ashei sneaks her mushrooms onto his plate. Linda, Anton, Sue-Belle, and Kamo are at their regular table, leaving only Mesa and Willi ahead of me in line. Telma, Luda, and – surprisingly enough for this time of day - Renado, file in after.

I pick up my tray, bowl, and plate just like everyone else, and head over to Gillian first. She’s old enough to be my grandmother, and rules the kitchen with an iron will. She’ll retire when she pleases, but until she does, I’m going to enjoy her services to the fullest, and pay her handsomely for it.

“Where’s your latest kitten?” She asks as she ladles me a bowl full of rich broth and perfectly tender vegetables, hands strong and steady despite the weight of years they carry.

“He’ll be along shortly. Make sure to save some for him, okay?” I ask, knowing that the rich, nutrient dense broth will be one of the best things for him to eat until his stomach expands to tolerate regular meals.

“Of course.” She grins at me. “He’s not the first small, pathetic thing you’ve brought me, and won’t be the last. I know.” Given that the first actually was a kitten when I was four, and there have been a steady stream of creatures and people since, her assessment is spot on. I hope that the next one isn’t as badly off, though. I don’t think my heart could take it.

The sudden silence in the Great Hall is impressive, and makes the closing door seem horrendously loud. Sheik is still too thin, and – with smudges of dirt and dust that could be mistaken for bruises if they didn’t cover his clothing as much as his skin – very spooky. The hair and the tattoo, particularly, especially with his eyes as wide as they are. The hitch in his breathing is audible from where I stand, and after all the work I put in earlier to make sure he didn’t run, I’m not about to let it happen now.

“Ah, Sheik! Good you’re here. There are a number of things I wish to discuss with you.” Renado beats me to it, and I could kiss him for it…if he weren’t nearly my father’s age and happily married to my Chamberlain, that is.

“Have some soup, hun, and maybe a biscuit.” Telma recommends, and the two of them enfold him between them as talk resumes at the tables. Quieter, cautious, but not overtly hostile. I’m still disappointed, but know I’m being ridiculous. He’s still new. They don’t know him like I do, and until they do, until that subconscious prejudice is eased, I shouldn’t expect them to welcome him freely. I shouldn’t. I still feel as though they’ve let me down.

“Gillian’s soup is the best, but your buns are better mama.” Luda insists, making Gillian shake her ladle at the girl with a grin on her face.

“Ah, yes. They were greatly appreciated last week at Temple. Thank you, Chamberlain.” Sheik manages softly, bowing his head but able to meet Telma’s eyes cleanly. I head over to Sam for a chicken and cashew lettuce wrap and request some of the pureed sweet potatoes. After hitting the books for most of the morning, hitting the wooden pells for a while will keep my body as active as my brain. Depending on what Renado wants to talk about, I should take Sheik with me to at least show him where my exercise room is. I have a sneaking suspicion he doesn’t get enough exercise to go along with the not getting enough food or sleep or warmth or contact.

The small family usually sits close enough to the kids table that Luda can go play if she wants, and it’s been a while since I’ve joined them. I like to eat with all my staff, just to catch up on their lives or for informal meetings if needed, but since that usually happens at supper time, no one will be offended if I sit with the children at lunch. Except maybe Malo. He’s teething, and it makes him cranky, so it might not be my fault he starts crying within moments of my arrival. Renado sets his tray down to help seat Telma, which means Luda has already started in on her own bowl of soup by the time Sheik slides in to the chair next to me.

“Gracious Hylia, thank You for the food before us, the family and friends beside us, and the love between us.” Telma says before she and Renado start their meals. Sheik bows his head and murmurs his own small prayer and follows suit, not needing any coaxing to start eating. I don’t either, and dig in. Gillian’s soup is wonderful enough that there’s no talking for a good five minutes, and then it’s only Luda asking to be excused to play.

“Of course dear. Brush your teeth after.” Renado nods, and she scampers off to tussle with Ralis. I’m distracted by my food and Luda, so when Sheik jumps and yelps, I do too. He looks down as my heart thumps wildly, and bends beneath the table.

“Hello there. Who’s this handsome boy?” He asks, and pulls Malo up onto his lap.

“That’s Malo, Pergie’s son.” Telma waves to the table where Jaggle, Pergie, and Ulli sit.

“He bit me.” No wonder he jumped.

“He’s teething.” I explain, and have to grin at how well Sheik is holding him despite the boy trying his best to get at the bowl on the table and the delicious things inside. Failing that, the shiny beads bound in Sheik’s hair are a good second choice. After the awkwardness in the hallway with Colin, I’d wondered if Sheik had any skill with children at all. It must have just been uncertainty, for he manages a baby easily.

“Is that so.” Dipping his finger into his water glass, I wonder what he’s doing until that finger disappears into Malo’s mouth, rubbing at his gums to sooth the ache. It appears that, despite all rumor to the contrary, Sheikah don’t eat babies when there are other options available, and it’s more likely that the babies will eat them. The conversation in the Great Hall resumes its normal volume not long after that, and the meal ends with Salvatore taking a sleeping baby off Sheik’s lap to put down for a proper nap. Energized and pleased, I steal him from Renado to take him to my practice room. Telma’s throaty purr tells me that whatever he wanted to talk to Sheik about, it will wait.

“Where?” He asks when we pass the staircase instead of going up it, still withdrawn and quiet. The banging and thumping from the crew almost covers the sound of his voice entirely, but I was waiting for that question in particular.

“My practice room. It used to be part of a barn, but when we renovated the carriage house it was done as well.” I tell him, chattering a bit more than necessary to fill the silence he carries. Not that it’s oppressive, but I need to maintain my energy and keep it focused, not have a nap or find out if his offer for a round on the table is still on the table. “There’s a climbing wall, mats, a striking dummy, free weights, ropes, and a number of practice weapons. I figured you should know where it is, since I like to keep my body as fit as my mind.”

“Is there a sealed circle there as well?” This question comes out a bit firmer as his interest is piqued, and his stride lengthens to match mine, though he stays a step behind and to my right.

“Do you want to use it?” I think it’s being used to store the mats when I want a bare wooden floor, but I know it’s there.

“Yes.” He nods decisively, sure of himself again. If letting him practice his own forms of martial arts has him this confident and strong, I’ll find somewhere else to store the mats, and help him move them today. Compromise and adjust. I can open the way, but he’s going to have to make himself at home here. I just need to know how to help.


	19. Magnetic Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheik gets Shakespearean, but will it end in tragedy, comedy, history, or simply be poetic?

I’ve known him for a week.

Seven days, and he’s completely turned my life upside down and inside out, just by being such a fucking spoon. Scooping me up and cradling me more securely than I held the teething boy. Yes, it was an excuse to not have to finish my oversize meal and avoid speaking with the Deputy-Commissioner, but it seems as though by doing so I secured the good will of the residents of Korokshire as a whole. Link…seemed pleased. Almost as pleased as he was to be feeding me a stale granola bar in the hatch of his car. That was just my introduction to him, and he didn’t even do it to get in my pants.

Hylians. They’re insane. It’s the only explanation. I’m just as bad, following the man who owns me – body and soul – like an infatuated spaniel down the unfamiliar halls of his home. Mine too, now, I suppose. Just how big is his estate? I thought I’d at least walked the length of it, but apparently not. I know there are floors I haven’t been to, and the sprawling grounds would take days to just encircle, but this is as ridiculous as my being here in the first place.

A week ago the only space I could call my own was one hundred and eighty centimeters by two hundred and five centimeters. If I stretched my arms and toes out, I could touch the opposite walls easily. All of my worldly possessions fit in a file box. Then I just _had_ to go get what food I could with the money I had left from an evening on my knees in an absolute pit of a bar. Fucking stupid, Kaya. Who knew I could destroy it all with a single flick of my wrist accompanied by the sulfuric stench of burnt eggs? I had a long time to think about it in the holding cell. Almost long enough to convince myself I’d done the right thing and gotten away with it.

Nayru knows it’s been a Calamity of a week, though I can’t fault Her timing. It’s not the Reading Week I anticipated, that’s for fucking sure. But my papers are done aside from editing. I’m caught up or ahead on my readings. I have food and shelter for the foreseeable future, and have upgraded from a parade of anonymous dicks to one that won’t cheap out on me. Upgraded converter, upgraded slate, upgraded company, upgraded pay. If my life were a video-game, I’d think I’d just defeated a boss monster on my own and gotten all the drops. If life were a video-game, though, I’d actually be smushed on the floor. I’m no tank, and have a distinct lack of NPC reputation or key items.

Thank fuck for Link, literally and metaphorically, but also fuck him with a rusty hacksaw. First he gives me everything I need to be what I was raised to be, and then he dismisses me when I try to do it. That knocked me flat, surprising me, but I would say I’m almost stable again. At least, as stable as I get. I know full well I’m not exactly a model of mental or emotional fortitude, but my wobble hasn’t gone full tilt-a-whirl. Finding a routine and a rhythm to the pattern my life is to take from this point on would be nice, if Lord Prude can get his shit together enough to tell me anything important. Then I just have to figure out how to deal with Forelock being on campus and literally out for my ass.

By the Fierce Deity’s double helix sword, if having to deal with Forelock is my penance for getting to serve Link, I’ll take it. Hero complex and all.

Link chatters as we walk like one of those cheap frog motion sensors, croaking about the rooms we pass and the path we’re taking, and I file the information away as best I can, intensely grateful that he’s still talking to me after staking his claim. He’s the same handsome, stubborn, noble bonehead he’s always been. The room to the right is the nursery, the left a playroom. That room is for music. That one for the permanent workers to socialize. That hall leads to their apartments and bath house. This one is the small library, implying there is a larger one elsewhere on the grounds. This is the keepers’ assembly. There is the laundry. Shipping and receiving. Storage. The hall to the seasonal workers’ apartments, kitchen, and bath house.

“And here’s the practice room.” He opens the door with a flourish worthy of the most flamboyant maestro, letting me get my first glance at where he goes to maintain his perfect ten. With a single look, I can tell he does most of his work here. His presence is everywhere, though someone must come in to clean, change rags, and refill the sanitizer spray bottles. The only thing missing is a live opponent, which must be why he attends classes with the green spandex man and that psychopath. Saints and Sages, Moonsday is going to be the worst Moonsday in the history of Moonsdays.

But I said I’d be there, and I won’t lie. Won’t risk losing the one thing that makes me more valuable than any moderately experienced hooker. Not now. Not when I’ve actually achieved my purpose. I _will_ be worthy of my title. I will. Forelock can’t take that from me. If I’m right, he won’t even be able to touch me, though he’ll try. I didn’t promise him anything more than my presence. With Nayru’s Love and maybe some of Daruk’s Protection, I should be able to keep it at that. Defensive, cowardly tactics, yes, but they guarantee my survival. I’ll figure out what to do about the damn video later. Hopefully before classes start up again.

My master has already moved into the space with enviable confidence and is pulling up mats off the floor to reveal an old, sturdy sealed circle for practicing arcane combat. It hasn’t been used in decades, but – like the Chapel – is still consecrated, still serviceable. Disused, not misused, and more than capable of containing any accidents I may have or mistakes I might make. I can work with that. Fuck, I am that. I just need to remember what being used properly is like.

So I practice. I practice until the backlash builds to an impending migraine and my sweat has soaked through my shirt and drips down the small of my back to soak into the waistband of my pants. My converter is warm against my overheated skin from the amount of processing it’s had to do, and there’s just one thing left that I need to test for my own peace of mind. I wait until the only other corporeal entity in the room has finished his flurry rush form and sheathed his blade before interrupting his patterns, absently noting that he carries his shield well. Balanced. Lightly, for all the weight it represents.

“Hit me.” If I’ve done my work correctly, even if he thrusts straight through my middle, his sword should deflect away at least twice. Hopefully more.

“What? No! Not a chance. I said I won’t hurt you, and I meant it.” He growls, turning my insides to absolute slop despite the misinterpretation of my request. Other things further down firm up instead, and I use that to reinforce my spine so I can clarify. Not that I wouldn’t like a spanking or six, but not right now. There’s work to be done, and a theory to assess.

“I need to test my protections, and you’re the only other person here.” Not the only other swordsman, but ghosts have trouble affecting the physical realm, and that’s what I’m analyzing. “I trust you to be able to pull the hit if it gets too close.” Poking his pride is like poking a bear, and he is too focused on what he thinks the world should be and _how_ he thinks he should be to ignore the taunt. Responsible. Honorable. Fucking spoon. It’ll get me killed one day. Not today though. That’s for _my_ pride to do.

“Fine.” He grunts after considering.

“Thank you.” I nod, meaning it. His eyes narrow and his jaw gets that stubborn set to it that drives me up the curtains, but he draws. Corrects his stance. Inhales. Good shit I’m an idiot. Shield, Kaya-bitch. Make it count, or do so with fewer fingers to keep track of what number you’re on.

“Hya!” The first blow sends a ripple of diffused force through the honeycombed structure of Nayru’s Love, and my converter hums to life. My binding Runes activate, letting it transmute the energy from purely physical to light to heat to feed into the deep density of Daruk’s Protection. The Goron’s magic is difficult for me to sustain for any length of time, but with the two spells working in conjunction and my opponent supplying the requisite kinetic energy while my converter does what it’s supposed to do… “Ha! Hut! Hyaa! Ha!” …it lasts through every strike Link can manage, including an impressive flurry rush that he’s just been practicing that leaves him panting and me grinning.  I didn’t even feel a breeze.

Magical attacks are a different ballgame entirely, but I’m keeping this amalgamation as a cantrip for the rest of the semester. At least. Forelock is my immediate concern, but that doesn’t mean other sphincter sniffing cretins won’t try anything. It’s not like I haven’t been beaten in public before.

“That’s…wow.” Wide eyed, my _domine_ sheaths his blade once more. “Do all Sheiks know how to do that?” His question leaves me flatfooted, though I should have thought of it immediately. Should have thought of it before I even tried. Fuck.

“N…no.” I shake my head. “I thought…I mean, it worked, so I should teach those who have the skill to use it, right?” This…would have saved the King’s first Sheik, though not Eran. A bomb arrow is purely physical damage. Suffocating isn’t. Not in the same way. Daruk’s Protection has never been effective against drowning, and that’s essentially the same thing. I’m still not worth the paper I’m printed on.

“I’m calling Tetra, you can tell her and Claree how.” He’s fast, picking up his phone from the pile next to the door before I can think to do so.

“Wait.” I gasp. He stops, thumb on his lock-screen, listening to me. For once. All to protect his fiancée. As he should. Good. “I’ll call Grand Master Impa. She’ll know who on staff has the capability, and pass it on to everyone who should know. All the Sheiks, His and Her Majesties, Princess Hilda, Princess Tetra, Prince Ravio, Lady Agatha.” As long as someone can cast it on each royal regularly, purely physical attacks won’t be a problem. At all. Good and Gracious Hylia, I’ve…changed everything. All because I was scared of a violent psychopath beating me to death when I denied his demands for coercive sex.

I should have figured it out a long fucking time ago. Din _damn_ it, I’m supposed to be thinking of _them_ , of the Goddess Hylia’s direct descendants, not my own worthless hide! I know I can probably survive being raped and beaten to unconsciousness, but if I’d used my damn brain before this, Steen wouldn’t have had to take a bomb arrow through his. Fuck.

“This better be good, Lord Korokshire.” The Grand Master’s annoyed voice comes through the speaker as my _domine_ holds his phone out towards me. I swallow my self-recrimination to revisit later, and take the phone.

“Forgive the interruption Grand Master, this is Kaya Lurelin, Lord Korokshire’s Sheik. I have news of utmost importance for you to convey to the other _esclavin_ as quickly as possible.” I start, gaining courage with every word. I _know_ it works, I’ve used it myself. She’ll see that it’s tested, repeatedly, by others with the aetheric talent, and implement it appropriately. Teach it to the young ones as a matter of course. I just need to explain how.

Fuck if I know who – amongst all the King’s servants, Sheikah, and supporters – has the ability. No one at Temple could manage, though some possess the raw power needed, or would, if they ate and slept as well as I have for the last week. From the way my vision is blurring and waving at the edges, my head feeling like it’s caught in a vice, I came close to my limits myself. Even with my shiny new converter, it’s a strain. Still, this is too important to wait until light no longer sends lances of throbbing agony through my skull to tell her about.

The release of Daruk’s Protection brings out a full blown migraine, complete with nose-bleed and nausea, but I push through it to convey every last second of both my preparation and the test of my binding rune work. I haven’t altered either of the spells, just what ties them together and their elemental resonances. Transmutation, catalyst, conversion, reformation, restructuring. Given that the stats Impa has on me are nearly a decade old, I have to mention the _saithr_ skein proportions may be off, and to use caution.

I know she speaks after that, but the pain in my head keeps me from parsing her words. Link takes his phone back not long after, and leaves me on the cool floor to turn off the lights.

I could kiss him for it, and I still find the entire spit-swapping practice a little revolting. If I wanted to deal with a long tube with an asshole at either end, I’d watch more of that program Link was so insistent on viewing. The thought of turning on that noise-box and their opinions of my people takes my migraine from bad to worse, and I focus for a long time on simply breathing. Not through my nose, which continues to drip blood steadily into the rag I somehow have, but deeply, steadily, and with as much focus as I can manage to the exclusion of all else.

“Here, take these.” The voice in the darkness is my _domine,_ a warm and deep russet-red form sinking down to sit next to where I’ve curled into a pathetic blob. He has to pat my side gently to find my hand, pressing two small, round tablets into my palm, followed by a juice box when I attempt to swallow them dry. It could be anything from acetaminophen to rat poison, and I couldn’t care less as long as it doesn’t make it worse. The juice helps, too, replenishing some of the energy I’ve used and making me remember that I had to use both hands to hold the box a week ago as well. The cold cloth over my eyes is a blessing, and the fresh rag to soak up the slowly tapering flow of blood from my nose is nice as well, even if it is just to preserve the hardwood floors.

If one in a thousand mages can use the binding I’ve created, or someone finds a better means of connecting the two forms, it was worth it. I may even be able to count it towards my debt in failing Eran. Nothing can entirely erase it, but perhaps, one day, I can be forgiven. Forgive myself.

Fucking hope. I’d be a damn sight better off without it.

“Better?” He whispers after the cloth has warmed to be a nearly even temperature with my skin.

“Yes.” Inhaling deeply doesn’t make me taste blood, though I can still smell it. I can also sit up under my own power. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ , Sheik. This is huge. You…Goddess, you’ve saved lives with this.”

“If it hits the caster this hard, it’s not that useful.” I remind him, pressing the heels of my palms to my eyes to relieve some of the pressure in my head. “Most accidents and assassins don’t give you an hour warning, and I only held it for about a hundred and ten seconds.”

“Can you stand?” The blur of heat and motion shifts, crouching next to me. The hand on my back isn’t unexpected.

“I think so.” My knees aren’t shaking like a bobble-head, so it’s worth a try. I’m fine standing, walking even, until Link opens the door and the light in the hall makes my head throb hard enough to get my nose going again. “Ah, shit.” I need to recalibrate the warp in my binding for sure if this is the result…but I can think about it enough to recognize that, so I am better. Just not good. I haven’t been good for a long, long time. But I am better.

Which is just another debt I have towards my _domine_ with no means to repay. Except for letting him take the copyright for the binding, if it works. I’m his, so my ideas and labor are also. The accompanying royalties might cover the expense of my outfitting. He spent more on the five suits before tailoring than I’ve spent on clothing ever. Cumulatively. At least my current nausea is from messing with spells I have no right to be mucking with and not from thinking of how much I owe him.

“Up we go.” After staggering for three doorways down the hall, he’s had enough of my weakness, and scoops me up to carry me back to his suite. Putting me in his bed as though I belong there, covering me with the blanket instead of his body and fetching another cloth to deal with my face. My nose stopped bleeding again somewhere between the laundry and the small library, and he hasn’t turned on the lights in the bedroom. At least that is sensibly shielded from both the hall and outside, though if he keeps refusing to lock the door to his suites the wall is worth about as much as I am. Less, if there’s a rampaging Goron to deal with.

With this marking, I’d cover my face too. Never mind classes on Moonsday, I’ll be lucky not to get arrested for shoplifting just setting foot in an upper-end store. He’s even got two girlfriends with better than average features. Princess Tetra’s a little too strongly boned to be beautiful, but she is pretty. Lady Malon naturally has tits that a plastic surgeon strives for. I’m just a skinny spook. No one wants to look at a face not even my own mother could love when they can pretend they’re with someone else. The cloth over my mug is just a reminder that my worth is determined by my master’s pleasure, and is not inherent in my existence.

He leaves almost immediately after setting me on the clean sheets, which I know I’m getting dirty. I’m as nasty as the Traditionalists’ logic, or the Witchfinder’s humor, and Ulli won’t appreciate that at all. I knew I needed another reason for her to hate me, though I’m still not certain what the first one was. I should clean myself up. The gleam of the charging light for my phone is enough that I can find the spigot for the shower and at least rinse off before taking a towel with me to keep from soaking the bedding that I fall into like a virgin on their wedding night.

The soft chatter of the television from the other room wakes me in time to hastily re-braid my hair and sit by Link for supper, though my appetite is non-existent and I only pick at the green beans he puts on my plate. Crisp and fresh and tasting of spring, I can’t resist the reminder of renewal. Yes, I owe Link more than I can hope to repay with a lifetime of service, but I have to try. Hope. Out of all he’s given me, that’s the most important and the least reimbursable, as well as the most personally controversial. 

Asshole.

“Just one, come on.” He insists, putting a meatball in mushroom gravy from his own plate on to mine. For him, I can do it. Because it’s his ancient grandmother of a cook, it’s very good, the meatball some mix of things that’s tender beneath my fork and the mushrooms meaty in a way that tells me they’re fresh and this is the way mushrooms should taste. It’s only when we’re back in his suite and I have his 100% organic meatballs in my mouth that the first responses start pouring in. I make sure to swallow everything he gives me before backing off so he can answer his phone.

The next three days echo the same events, and it’s not the first time I’ve missed going to Temple, but with the Chapel here I don’t miss my devotions. I even have an _appropriate_ offering for Her, for the first time in years. We have breakfast together, study, take lunch with the staff and go practice. I’m careful not to strain myself, but make notes for the Grand Master to update her on my experiments in binding the two barrier spells together while Link alternates cardio, strength, and flexibility days. Cleaning up doesn’t take long, there’s some time for work, and then it’s time for supper with the staff again, though more formalized than the buffet line. After that, he calls Tetra, and I talk to Impa. That takes him a lot longer than it takes me to update and receive the results of her own experiments to consider and incorporate into the binding Runes.

I take my own notes, because after speaking with his fiancée and sometimes their mutual girlfriend, he’s ready to go to bed, and not to sleep. Now that he’s got me to service him, there’s no reason for him to have to masturbate, and that type of frequency can be maintained even once classes start tomorrow. I’m no closer to finding a solution for Forelock, but the shared scheduling Rune between us tells me that I’ll have almost four hours to deal with the aftermath. I haven’t found the courage to bring it up in front of Link again, not after he dismissed my fears over the Keaton Report’s article, though we’ve both been distracted. Me with the spell-binding, him with his Princess. I’d kiss her for it, but then she might get the wrong idea.

Link finishes with a thigh-shaking shudder and lays panting for a moment before rolling off of me, replacing his dick with three fingers that squelch through his semen to press against my prostate. Now that he knows where it is and what it does to me, he uses it ruthlessly. Once to get me relaxed enough for him to mount, and then again when he’s done for the night if I’m not already finished. He’s remarkably considerate. It’s more than anyone aside from Kahti has consistently done for me, and I wholeheartedly approve. When I come back from looking at the heart of the sun and biting down on the pillow, he’s got me mostly cleaned up and is chuckling.

“What’s funny?” I moan, because even if he’s stick-a-fork-in-it done with me, his fingers still feel good. He feels good. Smells good. Looks good. So good. Mm. Keeping him willing to make the effort on my orgasm is worth the uncomfortable sensation of his one-eyed trouser snake spitting up inside of me and the belly ache it gives me after. He hasn’t even broken the seal on the box of condoms, though the lube is nearly gone. Ulli will need to empty the rag bin tomorrow, and she just did this afternoon.

“Nothing, really.” He hums, biting at my shoulder. “Just happy.”

“You’re _happy_ that you have Kaepora in nine hours?” Looking at the clock, it’s a little closer to eight and a half. He’s been boning me for over two, and the evidence is more than the towel beneath me can take. I’m going to need to shower again, but that’s nothing new. Clean up, like the rest of my new habits, is becoming routine, even if I find I enjoy a daily breakfast almost as much.

“Not particularly, though it will be nice to get back to a normal schedule.” He admits, wiping his fingers on the rag he keeps next to his charger, now. More new habits. “I’m happy that you continue to share yourself with me.” Clean fingers lift my chin so he can tongue my tonsils, and I roll over to keep my neck from folding further than it should.

“You’ve given me so much…” I start when he pulls back to lie against my side with a ridiculous grin on his face and mischief in his eyes, and get a burst of laughter in response.

“Not complaining anymore?” He asks as his fingers get dirty again and make me gasp. How he can continue to produce such massive loads explains where a good portion of his calories go, since there’s no sign of a spare tire below his navel.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” If his fingers are there, then what’s pressing against my hip isn’t attached to an arm.

“Can I give you one more?” His breath is hot against my neck, his fingers stirring his swimmers, and that is new.

“Are you trying to break a record, or just my hips?” He’s already busted his balls three times, and mine twice. It doesn’t stop me from spreading my legs for him, though I doubt I can manage much more.  I’m tired, dammit.

“Just once more, no record.” He assures me. “May I?”

“I’m going to call your fiancée, and make her take responsibility.” Grumbling gives me time to mentally prepare myself for a fourth round. I lasted six when Mr. Barnes brought his friends over to watch the game, but they were all fresh. Old, but fresh. Unfortunately, I wasn’t worn out from a full day of work and cumming twice myself. Fortunately, he’s tired too, though I’m not sure I want to contemplate what four times not being a record means. Calamity. Poor Princess Tetra, and Lady Malon, I’m assuming. Hopefully that was for both of them, or a fap-fest and not one alone.

“That’s fine. Send her pictures.” He grins.

“No, you spoon. She’s _your_ fiancée, and that means _you_ get to fulfill her perverted fantasies.” I argue, mostly because that’s far too much effort to even think about. I’m not going to refuse him, but he can damn well wait just one fucking minute. Farore’s tits, his stamina must be a wheel that just keeps rotating.

“I can’t fulfill all of them.” He shakes his head, moving back over me. “I don’t even know all of them. Malon knows more, though I’m learning. What are some of yours?”

Isn’t that the fifty million rupee question.

“Goddess, later.” I deflect, wiggling to give him better access and feeling his crack spackle squish between my cheeks. Fresh and slick. “Just…hold me down for now. Pin me to the bed and fuck me.”

“Aye, aye.” His weight lowers, some of his own exhaustion showing as he puts my hands over my head and holds my wrists. I let him, even though I could break his hold as easily as a blown glass flower. No challenge, no fight…so I don’t give him one. Handcuffs would be nice, though I’d settle for one of his bile-green ties keeping me on his bed, if only so he doesn’t wear it in public. A little nudge, and he slides right in. No fight at all. I can see myself getting addicted to it.

It’s as much of a cuddle as it is a fuck. Nothing more than his heat over me, his weight holding me down, a steady rhythm, and a series of soft grunts to match my panting as he makes sure to clear the way for Forelock if everything tips out of the dragon’s clutches. I know I’m no longer on the job when he stops moving south of the border, barely managing to stay awake long enough to mouth at my face once his illegal immigrants have gotten through customs. I think it was supposed to be yet another kiss, but he’s dead to the world and I can’t ask. If I don’t want to be just regular dead, I’ve got to be ready to run tomorrow the moment I’ve fulfilled my promise.

Keeping the towel in place to catch any drips is getting easier the more I do it, not that Ulli thanks me for it. She’s still pissy about the dust. I personally don’t like sleeping in a wet spot that just gets colder and tackier the longer I’m in it. Not that I like the wet spot inside me either, and that’s the first thing to go once I’ve got my hair up and the shower going. The stomach-ache fades soon after. Cleaning myself out takes the last of my energy, and not for the first time I wonder if sleeping in the tub would give me a chill. Probably. There’s a perfectly wonderful bed with soft sheets, thick blankets, and my own personal body-heater just a few steps away.

Bed. Sleep. Warm. Sleep. Fuck, my hair. Ugh. Leave it, the wraps cover a multitude of sins even if I prefer to be impeccably groomed. Sleep.

Stumbling to the bed as big as my last apartment, I manage to crawl under the covers and tuck my _domine_ in with two large tugs and a roll. He grumbles a bit at being disturbed, but has no problems wrapping himself around whatever part of me gets too close. Lord Spoon indeed. He’s warm, though. It’s nice. So is falling asleep with the scent of his skin in my nose.

Were it not for both of us trying to avoid it first thing in the morning, spooning would definitely turn to forking. As it stands, I end up reading articles from the Castletown Post aloud as he steers his Epona through the mists of Korokshire and onto the freeway. The Post’s reporters are usually on the pessimistic side, which doesn’t give me confidence in my survival. There’s nothing I can do that will affect other people’s prejudice aside from not validate it, so no violence and no interrupted routines. Stay quiet and try to not be noticed. I stick to my given script, and try not to think about it.

He’s listening for content, which means he’s listening to me, and hears the fear that I can’t keep down. That much hasn’t changed, and I’m beginning to think I’ve been hoping for the wrong thing. If taking me as his Sheik doesn’t change who he is, then he doesn’t change who he is…and he needs to learn in order to grow, and that means changing. Trusting that I won’t lie to him for any reason or under any circumstances. I’ve been selfish, and Nayru’s Blessing is telling me there are consequences fast approaching for it. The last six blocks his hand moves from caressing my thigh to holding onto my own, and he doesn’t let go until he needs it to park. It’s pure chance that I see the telephoto lens in the window of the Engineering building as I fold the paper down again.

“I know you’re worried...” He tells the steering wheel as I try to make out features in the darkness. The angle of the sun doesn’t help, reflecting off the window and making seeing anything in the top third impossible. “…but nothing will happen. This is Campus, Security’s good.” He honestly believes it, too. For him, I suppose it is. “If you need me, text me, or call after Kaepora. I’ll come right away.” He promises. What he could do, I haven’t the foggiest. I’ve set a precedent that will be difficult to change, and am out of time. He’s obviously unwilling to do anything preventative or inconvenient, and that’s my fault.

Sharp as scrambled eggs, aren’t you, Kaya? It’s not his job to protect you. You’re to protect him. Keep him healthy and happy and as brilliantly shiny as a newly minted five shard piece. If he thinks Campus is safer than the streets around Ikana Bar, you don’t get to tell him it’s not without irrefutable proof. Shut up, keep your head down, and take it. Face your fears, you damn coward, so he doesn’t have to know the same world you do. No one should have to.

“Okay.” I rasp, and duck out of the car before he can lean across the console to give me a parting kiss. Not while there’s a camera on us, which means not in public, anywhere or any time.  It’s too risky. It disappoints him, the sag in his shoulders is obvious, but he nods and gets his own bag across his back.

“Seriously, call me?”  The tension in his jaw isn’t one I’m used to, but the narrowing of the corner of his eye and flatness of his brow, he’s thinks I’m angry at him, and hurt from it. Fine. Now to make sure, so he doesn’t feel guilty when they can’t find all the pieces of my body.

“Aren’t you going to be late?” I put all my fear into the snarl, and just like I hoped, his lips thin and his colors complete their change to the rich amber anger he’s used to carrying. Frustrated. Good. He should have never gotten involved with the tragedy that is me. He’ll be happy with Princess Tetra and as part of her entourage, as long as I don’t ruin it for him.

“Remember, lunch.” He snaps, and jogs off. My knees decide that they don’t want to work a grand total of two and a half seconds after he disappears on the path to History. The Epona is a good girl, supporting my weight like this. I have…eleven minutes to get to the fourth floor of Agriculture with one of the condoms Link has yet to consider using in my pocket. I don’t trust Forelock to use one, let alone bring one, and if I can’t get there and leave before he does, I want him to have one. I should go, now.

Nayru’s Blessing turns from wisps of warnings to jagged bursts the moment I leave the parking lot, just in case I’m too addled to understand how monumentally foolish being here is. I understand just fine. I’m a violet spook in a world made for Hylia’s children. The bursts radiate much sooner than I thought it would, and with enough time that I can dodge the rock without having to do more than twist. I don’t know the woman with rage in her stance and hatred in her eyes, but I don’t need to.  I know her face, and after a moment, her patterns. If she tries anything again, I will be able to identify her, and she knows it, and if there’s one thing she doesn’t want, it’s a criminal charge on her permanent record before she graduates.

I understand that, and as long as I don’t make any aggressive moves towards or around her, any further action on her part will bring that. As long as I’m still, and quiet, nothing I do could be interpreted as an attack, leaving her unable to claim self-defense.

“Traitor.” Another student with a backpack full of bricks mutters before slamming it into my side, knocking me clear off my feet and onto the pavement.  The flare of heat from my back tells me that I may have new abrasions and bruises and shouldn’t irritate it further, but getting back up is more important. There are too many people around that could have done it for me to pinpoint anyone, and I have nine minutes. There’s nothing I can do about it, and the rock tossing cheese nozzle is gone, so I walk. Fast.

I’m tripped twice, slammed into a wall, and shoved over a bike rack by the time I make it to Agriculture. Two of them I’d be able to pick out of a line up, but the other two there’s no chance. One of them might not even have been on purpose. None of them were feeling the least bit guilty. If it wouldn’t bring the Witchfinders down on my head, I’d disappear, but my magic – like my existence – is an anathema tempered by the converters we all wear and the cards all Sheikah carry with the numbers we’ve been assigned.

“Murderer.” This one is bold, calm, an art student from the departmental logo on his oversize black hoodie, and half-Gerudo. Nearly thirty centimeters taller than I am, his long red hair is held up in something supposedly resembling a warrior’s top-knot, but looser, sloppier, and too artistically disheveled to actually afford him any protection or stability for a helmet. I ignore him like I’ve ignored all the other bellowing ignorant fuck-trumpets blaring their stupidity on the way, but he’s faster than I anticipated and moves erratically, stopping me before I can put my hand on the door. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

“Your information is incorrect, murdering me would not be just.” It’s the truth, but like every other bigoted fuck I’ve had the pleasure of meeting he doesn’t care about the truth. He slams me against the glass door, breaking the last of my barrier and making me see stars instead of his fist until it connects with my face. Should have used the cantrip. Too late, Kaya, or not good enough. Fuck, why not both. Story of my life.

“I should hang you by your hair on the Palace gates.” He sneers, grabbing the base of my braid and unintentionally keeping me upright, if not on my feet. “Make an example of you so the rest of you spooks know their place.” Two minutes.

“Hey, let him go.” Out of all the people I could picture coming to my rescue, I certainly didn’t expect Big Red Grease Weasel, even if there are three of him and only one misguided moron.

“Why should I listen to you, huh?” While he’s distracted, I should run…but I can’t remember which way is up, let alone away. One too many hits in the head from a ham-handed lack-wit rattling my brain in my skull like a pea in a pickle jar. “You’re nobody! Just another impotent whiner too weak to serve your people and protect Castletown from these freaks!” He could be reading off of the G-man’s Chirping feed. At least I try to be creative in my insults, and I’m not even an art student.

“You should, because he’s my friend, and the spook whore has an appointment with me.” The nasal tones of Forelock’s insanity ring with authority that even I can hear despite the tinnitus in my ears.

“Lord Mallar Agahnim.” Big Red bows, both of him, and I feel the grip on my hair loosen. Not let go, but no longer tight enough that I can feel strands snapping. I _can_ feel hot and wet dripping down the back of my neck, though, to match the hot rush of blood to my face. “Good morning.”

“Morning, Groose. Thanks for finding him for me.” Mallar - now that I have a name for Forelock, I’ll have to make sure to substitute with a suitably insulting nickname - sneers. I’ll need to think of one that helps control how scared I am of him. “You can go now, Yuga. Give Mila my regards!”

“Yes sir.” His salute is sloppy, just like the rest of him. The grip on my hair is gone with his hatred, replaced by a hand around my throat and bitter, aggressively rancid arousal.

“You’re late.” Mallar chides, stroking my cheek before slapping me right over the bruise Yuga left. It stings, re-warming the swelling skin, but his grip is too tight for me to do more than gasp. My nails do nothing against the callous of his skin.

“You really had an appointment with him?” Groose squawks. “I thought your dad cut you off.”

“He did, the bastard. But a man has needs, and you paid enough for three blow jobs. I didn’t think you’d mind sharing.” Corrosive monster. I can breathe, but barely, and even then, not well.

“He was really good. I paid what I thought the service was worth.” Big Red frowns, crossing his arms and drawing attention to just how broad his shoulders are.  He only has three of them now, though Mallar’s grip is as tight as ever and I’m losing the edges to grey.

“He’s a spook, Groose. They’re worthless. Especially the males, though breeding the females can be fun. They scream so pretty.” Mallar sighs and tightens his grip, making me scramble. I somehow manage to get my feet under me and relieve some of the pressure on my windpipe. It’s difficult, since I don’t want to touch him at all and have very little ability to orient myself with spots floating like leaves in the wind.

I can tell he honestly means every word, and more, and that horrifies me more than anything else he’s said or done. Rapist, most likely. Only a lack opportunity would keep him from it. Psychopath, certainly. He’d kill me, anyone like me, with no more remorse than he has for stepping on a bug, and do it with a smile and nearly as many consequences. I finally know how Paya felt, and wish I didn’t.

“He’s worth the price of his labor.” Groose insists, and it looks like the unlikeliest of saviors actually will be, because Mallar’s hand twitches and lets me choke in a whole breath and a half. “Remember the lawsuit your maid filed. Don’t want daddy finding out through his lawyers again, do you?” Grease Weasel confirms that he’s had opportunity, and taken it.

“You wouldn’t.” The void of empathy that holds me still growls as his grip goes lax and I scramble away as fast as I can, coughing. Scrape my hands and knees but good, and wind up on the edge of the sidewalk in an icy puddle, but away. Far enough away that I can trigger my cantrip, and damn the consequences. I’ll take the pain of another migraine and my bruises and cuts over the terror of a meaningless death not of my choosing, and be thankful for it.

“Hey man, I got in trouble too. If you’d stop trying to duck out of paying your whores, you might get an allowance like mine.” Big Red commiserates, stepping between me and the feral, rabid badger in Hylian clothing. I met with him. One more stop and I’ve fulfilled my promise. I didn’t lie.

I run, praying he won’t give chase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been bookmarked for a side-story expansion...as soon as I can edit for spoilers.


	20. Life, Support

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to everyone's favorite Hylian doing what he does best...on his days off.

A week away from Kaepora’s intense lecturing means I find it twice as difficult to get everything down, and know that I’ll be reviewing the recorded audio files to fill in the parts that I missed later. Without my slate, I’d be lost. Even I know my cucco-scratch is barely legible at the best of times, let alone when I need to move as quickly as possible to get even a fraction of the information recorded. The less said about the ink smears across the edge of my hand, the better, and I only have one wet-nap to clean up after class so I can’t wipe it clean as I go.

I’m so focused on getting the diagrams labelled that I don’t notice my phone vibrating with over a dozen messages until after class, while I’m in the washroom scrubbing at the blue mess. Luckily, none of them are from Sheik, and while Gonzo and Senza are friends, they’re not dependent on me the same way he is. I still don’t know what I did to offend him so badly, or why he’s being so paranoid, but I also haven’t fallen asleep immediately after we’ve been intimate before, either.

Almost during, if I’m honest with myself.

I feel guilty about it, even now. I know he doesn’t like feeling dirty or sweaty, and that means I’ve paid special attention to helping him clean up after, and I didn’t last night. I don’t even remember if I managed to roll off of him before I passed out, just that I was feeling exceptionally good. As we weren’t stuck together when my alarm went off, he must have cleaned us both up despite being at least as tired as I was. Compounding that is the fact we won’t have as much time to be together now until after finals, and I wanted him to know that it isn’t because I don’t want to.

Hylia, do I want to. But want and need are different things, and I need to maintain my grades to get my degree before Tetra and I can be wed. That means more time spent on my classes and less time spent on him…but it’s difficult for me to ignore a living, breathing person in favor of books. Especially since he hasn’t really put on any noticeable weight, and that would worry me except for the fact he’s sleeping better, looks less sickly, and sounds stronger. I still might have squished him a bit, since I’m mostly muscle and that’s significantly heavier than his skin, sinew, bone, and hair. I’ll have to apologize before feeding him again.

Instead of trying to check my messages and walk at the same time, I head to Nima’s class so I can snag a left handed seat before pulling out my phone. The multiple messages from Senza and video files from Gonzo obscured Tetra’s good morning, and I pucker up and send her a selfie before looking at them. Nima walks in as I finish arranging to meet Senza for lunch, and I give him my attention for as long as it takes him to pull out his textbook slides and start droning.

Those are three and a half minutes that I have to regret, because Gonzo’s gone above and beyond and has managed to tap into the Campus Security cameras, meaning I get to witness Sheik getting knocked around from the moment I left his side. None of it is deadly force, but accidents can happen, and it’s a lot worse than I ever thought it could be in this day and age. It’s 2237! He could have broken his neck over the bicycle rack if he didn’t know how to fall properly, but it’s not the terrain that’s dangerous for him. It’s the people.

Especially Mallar.

I don’t like sparring with him on a good day, and today is not a good day for him. Usually he manages to keep his desire to hurt better hidden than that, only letting it out by hitting a little too hard, a little too harshly, a little too late after his opponent has tapped out. Instead of being his usual charming self, he blatantly concusses Sheik before attempting to strangle him, and is mostly successful. In public, with at least two witnesses. I have no idea what he says, but from the way Sheik bolts as soon as he can, it’s not pleasant.

At least he’s fast. Once he runs, there’s no chance of either Mallar or Groose catching him.  I don’t understand how he got caught in the first place, nor do I recognize the person who caught him outside of Agriculture, where he has no reason to be. No need. I know his control of the barrier he and Impa have been working on isn’t where it should be, but why didn’t he have _something_ defensive up? Why didn’t he call me? Damn it, why didn’t he go to security? It’s their job to make sure the students are safe, even from each other. Maybe he did.

There are two more videos.

I watch them both, and realize I’m growling halfway through the second one. This is _unacceptable_. After speaking with Administration about his scholarship, I know that nothing I say will change anything without substantial financial backing, but I know who can…and who will…help. I forward the videos to Tetra and Impa, and then link them and upload it to QueenGloom’s Chirping account and Renado’s messages in a private text. If Campus Security will just ignore him – literally turning their backs while he bleeds on the counter – then I’ll just expose their failure to both the public and the political spheres and let them deal with the consequences. Make it cost them more than they’re willing to pay.

The cold rage that comes over me at the injustice in their actions is enough for me to not regret leaving Nima’s class in the middle of a lecture, but it won’t help me when I get to Sheik. It will only scare him more, and he doesn’t need that. Doesn’t need me holding him down, blocking him in, keeping him contained, no matter how much I want to lock him away to keep him safe. He doesn’t need anyone restraining him, especially not me. Not now, and not when he’s the one that helped me recognize the cause of my anger for what it truly is. Fear.

Recognizing it doesn’t help me control it, and breathing deeply while counting to one hundred only does so much. At least I’m not growling anymore, and I don’t snarl at the maintenance staff member that accidentally bumps into me as I round a corner too sharply for safety. My anger is simply muted until I find a valid target, or can work through it on my own. I have a long way to go before I’ll overcome it, but I wouldn’t have a chance without his help. Without Tetra’s help, I wouldn’t have a chance to change anything that causes it. I need them both. She’ll need me tomorrow.

He needs me now. He needed me earlier. I didn’t know, and that makes me angry at myself for putting him in a situation where he either doesn’t think I meant he should call me, or doesn’t trust me to take care of it. I’m not sure which is worse.

The last video ended with him heading to the stairs in the Mamamu Yan memorial library, and he’s not answering his phone even though it’s still pinging in the building, so I have to search the stacks floor by floor to find him. I have a moment where I think I’ve missed him on the seventh before I remember the eighth exists, and take the stairs two at a time. Shad just points me east, and I nod my thanks, heading to the individual cubicles with a sinking heart.

The last time I heard these sounds, Sheik was in the middle of an anxiety attack, and being much louder about it. Much, much louder, which means he’s just as terrified, but has more control. He’s quiet when he’s cognizant and capable. Too quiet. I can barely hear the rapid thud of his heart over the page-turner two cubicles over, and am relieved when he finally takes a single, gasping breath before going still again, leading me to where he’s holed up.

There’s not a lot of blood, but someone will still need to get a mop instead of a rag. His marked eye is swollen shut, the other glazed and glassy and glowing with his pupil a mere pinpoint, leaving me unable to tell how badly he’s concussed. The outfit I helped pick out is scuffed, torn, and damp as well as dirty, though I can only see parts of it. He’s crammed himself into the corner with two full wall supports and is holding deathly still, arms around his knees, breathing irregularly. Shallowly. He doesn’t react to my invasion of his sanctuary, which I’m determined to take as a good sign, hoping it means he recognizes me and considers me safe, and not that he’s pulled so far into himself he doesn’t realize someone is in the cubicle with him.

When I kneel next to him and the visible shield of magic he was working on that deflected my sword flares to knock me back, my heart stops. He knows me, and it doesn’t change anything. Not for the brief moment it takes him to raise his head and look at me, or the time it takes for him to put his head back on his knees. There’s a pop like a pressure change when an airplane is descending as the orb collapses, and so does he, slumping to the side, utterly limp. I can catch him, and don’t hesitate to do so, and then want to weep if only to keep from hunting down the ones responsible and tearing them to shreds.

The hair at the base of his skull, between the wrap covering his crown and the longer, thinner part for his braid, is matted with clotted blood matching the color of the hand print around his throat. I thought his shredded palms were responsible for the bloody handprint on the security desk, but I might be wrong. I hope not. He’s cold to the touch.

“Lord Korokshire?” Shad murmurs. “Should I call someone?” He can’t see what I can, and he’s mine, too. Mine to direct, mine to shelter, mine to protect. I don’t want him to know how badly Sheik is hurt, because he’ll only blame himself for not noticing, and he is not at fault. Neither am I, though I am responsible. Sheik tried to warn me, and I didn’t take him as seriously as I should have. Gonzo keeping a discrete electronic eye on him will be enough to charge the art student and Mallar with assault, but I should have hired a guard to stay with him as well. Someone as skilled in physical combat as he is in magical. Ashei, maybe. Now he needs more help than I can provide.

“Emergency services, including an assault investigation team.” I request, resisting the urge to touch his red, swollen neck with everything I have in the hope that I don’t hurt him more. I’ll call Renado myself, and then possibly Impa. Sheik is boneless, which makes carrying him from the cubicle more difficult than I anticipated, especially dealing with his hair that seems to want to catch on everything. Page-turner ends up being an older student with more courage than I would have thought given the frumpy nature of her clothing and hair, coming out to see what the noise is about. She helps me get him laid out for the paramedics, volunteering her lap as a cushion for his head.

If not for the reddish light in her brown eyes and clear tones in her voice, I wouldn’t be able to let her do it. I can’t passively sit still and wait for help to arrive, either, so my temper is peaking when I dial Renado’s personal number and pace the length of the aisle. He answers on the second ring, and I bite my lip to keep from telling him that’s one ring too many. It’s his personal line, not the departmental one. He wouldn’t know.

“Shouldn’t you be in class, my Lord?” He greets. My reply comes in the form of an event timeline as I lived it, and ends when the T.A.R.G.E.T. team sends someone in the ambulance with Sheik while another starts taking pictures of the blood smeared on the tiles and two more go to find out Mallar’s class schedule and art student’s name. I’ve been recording our conversation, and hand my phone to their leader as is, trusting they’ll take what they need and return it as soon as possible.

With Nima’s class over, and less than five minutes left of Composition, I’m allowed to go meet Senza for lunch, spending most of her time voicing my displeasure instead of eating. I’m too angry to eat…until Tetra slides into the booth and puts her arms around me, Claree standing as an obvious guard. I recognize the Stifle she casts, and Tetra reinforces. Silence falls. My fiancée pats my back. Then I’m ranting out my frustrations over the attacks and my helplessness and I hate it, which only makes me cry as I cough out the whole story.

“What are you going to do about it?” Tetra asks when I’ve calmed enough to speak in complete sentences. It seems like forever with how my eyes hurt, but it’s only been a couple minutes. My steak is still warm. Her words, as usual, not only make sense, but give me something to do. Something constructive instead of destructive.

“Thank you.” She knows me so well. I needed that reminder. I can do something more productive than this, though I needed to let enough of it out to be able to. As much as I’d like to hunt Mallar down, find the other people that hurt Sheik and make them pay – like Groose – they wouldn’t learn anything…though I have to track down Groose, too. He got Mallar to back off, so I owe him. First though, I should eat, if only to have the energy for the hunt.

“You’re welcome, babe. Now, what’s your plan? We can have one of the Royal Guards sit in for your Sheik during dinner tomorrow if needed, but I think you’d be better having him there. It would set the appropriate precedent for any future meetings.”

“I don’t know if he’ll be able.” I sigh, cutting into my steak and rolling the pieces around on my plate. She didn’t see the forming bruises on his neck, or just how much blood he lost. I sent her the videos, and she’d have watched them before seeking me out, though I don’t know if Senza summoned her or not. I hope Senza contacted her. I need all the friends I can get.

“Eat that, don’t play with it.” My fiancée orders. “When you’re done we can find out where he’s gone. Anything more is speculation at this point.” She’s right. She usually is. I missed where the paramedics were taking him – if they mentioned it at all - too focused on giving a chronology to Renado to pay attention.  That will be my first target. What I find there will give me a second one.

I don’t know much about his life before, but three hospitalizations in less than two weeks isn’t setting a good precedent. I know he doesn’t have a general practitioner that he sees regularly – even though there’s a clinic on Campus – so I can infer that he either doesn’t often have cause or, more likely, doesn’t go see a doctor when he should. Even so, the other two are at least partially my fault as well as my responsibility. This time is different, and I can sympathize with Tetra a great deal more than I could before because of it.

She and Claree haven’t sealed their bond. I’ve been listening, and it’s not the desperate compulsion that Kaya’s was, which I assume helps them delay making it official. They’re in a kind of harmony all the same. If I feel this shaken by what is, really, minor injuries, I don’t understand how the King survived his first Sheik’s death…or how Kaya survived Eran’s. Probably the same way I survived mom’s, honestly. It’s not a pleasant thought.

I’ll just have to ensure that doesn’t happen to us…which means listening to him. How did he put it? I need…I need to listen, not just hear. Pay attention, actively, starting now.

I leave a tip equal to the cost of my meal to apologize to the staff for my tantrum, and follow Tetra to where her regular driver waits, ducking in immediately after while Claree watches our backs.

“Navi, call Kaya.” Tetra activates her assistant program as soon as Claree closes the door, sealing us away from the outside world. With my phone in the hands of the T.A.R.G.E.T. team, I could kiss her, so I do. Quickly, nothing more than a peck, but she understands. She always understands. Goddess, I’m so lucky she likes me back and is willing to help me achieve my goals. Right now, there’s only one on my mind. Locating my Sheik.

After nineteen rings, though, we both know he’s not going to answer. Pretending to be his brother frantically searching for him gets me through to the clerks, and after the third call with that particular tactic, Tetra thumps on the window and tells her driver to take us to Castletown General Hospital. Discretion means we don’t speed, no matter how much I’d like to, and use the secondary entrance by the day-clinic instead of the main one.

Not that people don’t recognize her immediately, and to a lesser extent, me. She smiles and waves and makes nice with a little Goron who’s got some sort of large growth on his side that interferes with his ability to move. They interfere with my ability to move, to find a map, to find Sheik, but I know that this needs to be done. Claree ensures that no one crowds us, which means we make slow progress, but it is progress.

I hate waiting.

A discrete elbow to my side gets me to smile at the Human girl with large eyes and no hair – and from the dark circles under her eyes and the way no one but staff seems to be accompanying her – tell her how brave she is. How strong. Keep fighting. A fist-bump on her non-intravenous wrapped hand seals the deal, and then it’s on to a young man about my age in a wheelchair, followed by a Zora with an exceptionally, disproportionally small radial arm fin, and a Hylian lady old enough to be my mother who congratulates us on our engagement.

I murmur the appropriate things, take frail and fragile hands in my own, and try not to think about how Sheik is lying somewhere here, alone, and just as vulnerable. Maybe more so. The only other Sheikah here is Claree, and that’s statistically unlikely given the last census population percentages. There are even two Kokiri, though Tetra took care of speaking with them. Our unplanned, unannounced visit brings security in the form of a Goron, a Gerudo, and three Humans to form a perimeter around us at Claree’s instructions, and from there, while not as fast as I’d like, we move.

Radios in hand, the security personnel get us to the emergency department and can take us directly to Sheik’s room…which has another Goron guard on it, and two uniformed A.R.G. officers chatting with two more T.A.R.G.E.T. officers inside. No wonder the rest of the security team knew where to go. The two different departments cut off their arguing the moment the door was opened, but I could hear raised voices, if not words. I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that half the room is hidden with a curtain that I can only hear beeping, hissing, and ticking behind.

“Lord Korokshire, your Highness.” The smaller of the two T.A.R.G.E.T. officers greets with a bow for each of us. “As you instructed, we have kept watch over Mr. Lurelin.” She reports. I don’t recognize her, never asked anyone but Gonzo to put passive surveillance on him, but she’s not talking to me.

“Thank you, officers.” Claree nods. “I will take over from here. Please escort these gentlemen out. Maintain silence. Your duties will resume once Lord Korokshire and her Highness have spoken with Mr. Lurelin’s attending physician.”

“Yes, Sheik!” Their salutes are neat and sharp, much like the swords they carry. With that dismissal, the two A.R.G. officers don’t protest vacating the room, and don’t need to be removed, making me wonder what the argument was about. Departmental jurisdiction, I suppose. Hate crimes are handled by the T.A.R.G.E.T. teams, while I called Renado specifically. He probably sent the A.R.G. officers directly, and they’re the ones who tend to fights and domestic abuse. I’m more impressed that Claree had the foresight to have Sheik shadowed. From the start, the venom in her voice when speaking to him has been caustic.

“I thought you hated him.” I tell her. “Thank you for keeping him safe.” I’ve misjudged her, almost as much as I did him.

“I didn’t mean to.” She snarls. “I was hoping to catch him committing treason and have him banned from the Royal grounds, if not imprisoned.”

“Claree.” Tetra hums, making us both look at her. Claree as a matter of habit, me because the amusement I hear in her voice is completely inappropriate to the situation. “What did you learn?”

The nearly sub-vocal growl is something I never thought I’d hear from her, and turns into a hiss. “You knew. You let me do it because you knew.” I’ve also never seen her angry at Tetra, though it fades quickly into the same quiet thoughtfulness Tetra’s given me a couple times. Maybe her amusement isn’t as inappropriate as I thought.

“Tell me.” My fiancé coaxes, coming to stand next to me as her almost-Sheik works through it, taking my hand in hers. I squeeze, knowing both how Claree feels and that Tetra’s pleased by this particular outcome.

“Kaya Lurelin is the only Sheik in recorded history to survive the death of his master.” She starts. “But that record is inaccurate, because Kaya was never Prince Eran’s Sheik. The title was awarded posthumously. He was, as I am, only a proxy. Close, but not the same thing.”  Her grimace cuts off further words, and were it not for the fact that I know she dislikes him for whatever reason, I would think it one of sympathy.

“Go on.” Tetra relaxes enough to wrap an arm around me, and I return the favor, interested now in what, exactly, Claree has discovered about the eerily silent man on the other side of the curtain.

“His survival is proof that the bond had not settled. His insanity is proof that it was very, very close to doing so.”

“He’s not insane.” I can’t help interrupting her, and she glares at me.

“Not dangerously...” She concedes while Tetra makes an agreeing noise. “…but he is. Sir Dorian helped to place all of Prince Eran’s remaining _esclavin_ , and he is the only one who had any difficulty settling into his station. He continually got into fights with classmates, and had run away within a week of being placed with a family that would tolerate his attitude. None of the others had any problems or acted out in any significant way. He disappeared completely by the time he was fifteen, and reappeared only when he applied to transfer here from Atun University.” She lists off.

“How does that make him insane?” I ask, and Tetra’s hand tightens on my waist.

“He cannot act in a socially appropriate manner, or even pretend to do so. Everything had been taken care of. There was no reason for him to abandon the path that had been laid out for him.” Her tone tells me that she thinks I’m being particularly obtuse. Just like the united front all the Sheikah had at their gathering at the Castletown Central Civic Center when I asked if there was anything I could do to avoid making him my slave.

Of _all_ of them, the only one that even acknowledged he might want to make his own decisions was Grand Master Impa. I still want him to, but finding out what he wants is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever attempted to do. The only thing he’s ever told me he likes was sex, and that was under duress. The more I learn, the more I realize that while it might be true, there’s more than just liking it behind how quickly and submissively he responds.

“My informant also noted that he regularly acted as an unlicensed prostitute at Ikana Bar, when there are much more suitable…more _lucrative_ …jobs available for a mage of his caliber.” Derision overlays disgust, but only just.

I…suspected something like that. The way he would offer himself to me as both distraction and enticement. His skill in the carnal arts. How, when he’s not desperate, surprised, otherwise emotional, and not instigating it, he doesn’t really engage. Oh, he moans and writhes in all the right places, but he’s not interested in the act itself. I can tell, now. I thought having it confirmed from an outside source would hurt more than it really does, which tells me I’m not actually surprised.

I just need to put in the effort to _get_ him interested.  When he _is_ , he’s…addictive. Incredible. Responsive and sensitive and phenomenally beautiful. I want to witness him losing control completely…trusting me to take care of him while he does, that I’ll lift him up to the stars, and catch him when he falls.

“Perhaps more effort should be spent on understanding why he ran, instead of condemning him for it.” Tetra chides her Sheik yet again, and Claree doesn’t flinch.

“We are our deeds, Princess. He abandoned his pledges, bringing disgrace. He illegally sold himself exclusively to male clients, rejecting the females entirely, and bringing shame to the profession. He is a thief, a scoundrel, and has an irredeemably foul mouth, bringing ire and anger. He cannot fit in, bringing caution. His reasons don’t matter. His actions do.”

“Even if it means he is wrongfully convicted, and possibly killed, for things that are neither his fault nor his responsibility?” Tetra asks, eyebrow rising.

“Death before dishonor, Princess.” Claree nods. “Our honor is our pride. We have so little else.”

“Then we, as your rulers, as your _domine_ , will have to change that.” Tetra states, voice rough with emotion that she will not show in public. I have not heard those tones outside of her bedroom, and that passion is what draws me to her as more than a fellow Hylian, more than subject, more than a friend. It’s my turn to give her my support.

“We will change it.” I promise, both to them and to the man I have to apologize to as soon as he’s capable of hearing it. The click-hiss-thud-thud of one of the instruments has fallen silent, and I would be worried – more worried – if there were alarms going off, but there aren’t. There’s a rasping, hollow quality to his breathing, but now that the machine is quiet, I can hear both that and his heartbeat.

He’s asleep, and it’s not a natural sleep, but neither is it that dangerous unconsciousness that can come after a head injury. He must have been put in an induced coma to help the healing Runes do their job.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Claree states baldly. “You can’t force everyone in Hyrule to suddenly have a change of heart.”

“But we can sway public opinion, expose injustice, and change the law.” Goddess, when Tetra gets determined, I get weak in the knees. “Right, babe?” When she kisses me, I get dizzy. When she laughs, my heart is lightened.

“Right.” Clearing my throat helps me focus back on the task at hand. “How’s Impa’s bill coming?”

“It goes before the Council next Dinsday. I was hoping we could lay the groundwork during the State Dinner tomorrow, but if Kaya is too injured to attend we’ll have to think of something else to subtly warm most of the Senators to the idea.”

“You wanted him to _subtly warm_ the Senators?” Incredulous, I stare at the woman at my side and hope she understands how utterly absurd that is.

“I wanted him to be the sarcastic, bitter, witty, and voluble little shit you know he can be, pardon my language. No one will be able to deny that he’s got a distinctive personality after meeting him at his brutal best. Having them see the Sheikah as a people made up of individuals instead of a bunch of trainable mammets is what I’ve been working towards.”

My fiancée is a conniving, manipulative wench, and I love her for it. It’s truly hard not to be, when you’re surrounded by politicians with personal agendas at best and paid vendettas at worst from the cradle on up, even if she is the youngest child. That she grew up in that environment and still manages to be the least petty person I know is incredible.

I suddenly understand, too, why she’s hesitant to take Claree as her Sheik.

It should be Claree teaching her how to read between the lines and determine people’s motivations, not the other way around. Knowing how someone feels is a more certain predictor of their imminent actions than past voting history ever could be. Knowing who they owe favors too is almost a guarantee.  She needs someone capable of seeing what she can’t, and telling her about it, and Claree doesn’t…fit that position. Not quite. She’s a good guard, an excellent servant, but not the type of partner that a Sheik has to be to be effective…at least according to the fraction of information I have to base my understanding on.

She is a shield, but not one that is well weighted or sized. I know how awkward that can be to wield, putting you off balance and hampering your ability to move well. I wonder how long it’s been since _any_ of the Sheiks have fulfilled the first part of the bond, if this is the best they can do for Tetra.

For Claree, as well.

“Link? You okay?” Tetra squeezes my waist, and I squeeze her back, nodding.

“Yeah…yeah. Just worried about Sheik. Er, Kaya.” Can he fulfill our bond like that, or will he simply remain some weird amalgamation of consultant and concubine? I thought after all we shared at Nonna’s he’d be a little more engaged with me. Instead, even though we share a bed, he’s gone back to being distant and quiet and constantly anxious, and now look what’s happened to him. He’s so weak in so many ways that I doubt I’ll ever be able to rely on his support in an emergency.  

I…am blaming him for my failure. He’s been trying. From the very first, he’s been trying. I just haven’t been listening to him the way I should be. It was inconvenient, but I know now that he truly does live in a different world than I do. Sees things differently. I have to do better at paying attention to what he tells me, recognize my own confirmation bias, and stop making excuses to avoid what I think is unlikely or unlikeable.

“He’ll be alright. He’s strong.” She reassures me, patting my chest and breaking away from my side. She doesn’t go far, only putting enough distance between us to pace, which doesn’t bode well for Mallar. “I’ll call Gonzo and have him send the raw footage to the T.A.R.G.E.T. team in charge of this case. Claree, I want you to track down Sir Dorian and speak with him directly about Kaya’s case files. If possible, I would like a copy. I also want you to see what happened to his foster family, and if they’d be willing to meet with him at a neutral location to discuss the obvious trauma he carries.”

“What about me?” I don’t mean to sound like Colin does when he’s over-tired, it just happens.

“As much as I’d like to just curl up with you by the mahogany fireplace, you need to be here when Kaya wakes up so he’s not alone when he gives his statement. Call in to his professors, and hand in any assignments he has ready, or get an extension for them. Once that’s taken care of, figure out why he didn’t warn you about the danger he faced, and order him to always report such matters to you _before_ they become an issue. Use your bond as his _domine_ if you have to, but _do not_ allow him to withhold crucial information from you again.” This is the Tetra that I love. Commanding and in control, seeking to not only heal past hurts but prevent future ones. Beautiful and fierce.

It leaves me, for the first time since I’ve known her, feeling incredibly small and guilty in comparison. I have my orders though, and I will follow them, even if it means what I mostly get to do is sit, stew, and wait. I hate waiting, it gives me time to be afraid. Pacing is better, as is using his phone and checking the scheduling Rune we share to find his professors and then comparing them to the office registry and taking care of what classwork I can.

I do the same for both Nima’s World Religions 240 and my Composition class. Then I can leave instructions for the housekeeping staff to clean out the room next to mine for immediate habitation. Sheik can figure out what he wants to do with it later, but I should have given him the space the moment I was sure he was going to stay longer than the night. As much as I enjoy having him in my bed, he needs his own space.

Somehow, I don’t think he’s going to be capable of meeting with the Lorulean delegation for the State Dinner tomorrow night. I know he’ll insist that he can, no matter how badly his injuries bother him. It’s what I would do, given how important the Dinner is, but I won’t allow him to compound already significant damage for the sake of appearances. He may live in a different world than the one I know, but I live in a different world than he does, and when somebody is hurting someone else, I have to stop them. Even if the only one they’re hurting is themselves.

He’s my Sheik, and I take care of what is mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this update being a little later than I anticipated, my physiotherapist has been kicking my butt (in a good way) and I've been paying for the progress through exhaustion. I should be able to update on schedule for chapter 21.  
> Thank you for your patience. m(_ _)m


	21. Analepsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How exactly does one become a sarcastic, anxiety laden mess?  
> It takes a village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings : underage sex, referenced rape, child prostitution, violence, institutionalized racism, fever dreams...and I may have missed some. I'll be trying to include possible TW at the start of each chapter from now on, so if anyone reading this catches one, please please please message or review and I'll change the notes/update a.s.a.p..

These “nice gentlemen” as Janitor Rusl called them really aren’t either nice or gentlemen, but they’re a damn sight better than Mr. Donavitch. My foster asshole is the reason my arm still aches in the cold, when I’m tired, or whenever I use too much of my magic, which means pretty much all the fucking time. Stupid mouth breathing bastard. I hope he catches crotch rot and his dick falls off. Better yet, I hope that when he dies his Goddess schools him but good, and he comes back as any one of the number of peoples he hates. Gorons. Zoras. Rito. Gerudo. Sheikah. Any one of those would work, with bonus points for being poor and female.

Not that being male made it easy for me, but at least he didn’t try to fuck me as well as beat me. Poor Meg. Jo was ugly enough to avoid it, but I’m pretty sure Beth’s pregnancy was his fault. She doesn’t like men at all…though I’m not sure if that’s also not at least partially his fault. It was amazing how quickly he changed his stance on abortion once it happened, though. Wouldn’t want any D.N.A. proof he’s fucking his foster kids out running around, I guess. I don’t know, couldn’t ask, since I bolted before they got back from the clinic.

Just because I never looked back doesn’t mean it doesn’t haunt my nightmares almost as much as his Highness walking out the door for the last time does. I didn’t even get to say good-bye. I learned from that, though. Learned and won’t make the same damn mistake ever again if I can at all help it. Run away, and live to see another day. None of the sisters have figured that out, yet.

I got out, they haven’t. It may be a frying pan/fire type of situation, but I got out. I can survive on my own, and they could too, but don’t realize it. Even then, it’s not easy. Definitely not as easy as following the path that’s been laid out for us, but fuck that. I’m better than what they’re trying to make me. Everyone else I’ve met in this system so far is, too. Everyone. Even those that run it.

I should have planned better, though I don’t regret what I did at all. I don’t regret not keeping my lunch money from the two weeks I spent in a cast so I could use it to buy some of the shit I need. I’m smart, and fucking pretty. Pretty enough to fuck, and there are enough perverts that I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine, and the sisters…well. Instead of keeping the cash, I left it with Amy alongside the address of the local women’s shelter, and that took some work to get. You can phone and e-mail them, but they don’t tell random spook teenagers where they keep victims of domestic abuse for pretty damn obvious reasons.

Hard to miss that much terror, pain, and relief though when it’s in a house and not a hospital. I hope she went. I hope they all went. A guy can dream…but there are still three lockers for the three sisters that weren’t kicked out of school for getting knocked up, and they’re still used every day. They pretend not to see me. I pretend not to see them, or their bruises, or the way Meg’s wearing loose shirts and dresses this close to graduation when a month ago she favored close fitting clothing and was…less aetherically robust.

I just have to thank fuck I can’t get pregnant, myself. The “nice gentlemen” Rusl brings over better have condoms though, or no dice. No reusing them either. And no fucking kissing. Just business. A stack of two hundred rupees worth of bills lays on the shelf with an extra ten ‘cause of the short notice. When my cot in the storage shed creaks as Mr. Hanch kneels behind me, that bonus almost gets me to ask if he wants me to move for him. Make it easier for him since he’s just lonely and fucking old so his joints don’t work right anymore. Maybe it was his tendons creaking, but that doesn’t sound so plastic-y. Neither does my cot, shiny and new and half a year too late to keep me off the tiled cement and dirt floor for the winter, but I’ll take it.

That’s kind of the point. He pushes, and I relax and take it. It hurts so damn good, even if Janitor Rusl’s is bigger and Groundskeeper Barnes’ is longer. Hurts less the more I do it, which means I’ve got to find some other way of focusing on the hard lines of reality and avoid getting lost in the patterns and drowning in the swirls and pockets of other people’s pain. I have enough of my own, thanks. The sharp relief that pure physical pain brings is getting harder and harder to achieve. Getting pounded isn’t working as well – whether it’s with fists or dicks – and I refuse to become just another homeless, drunk, unemployed spook. I won’t do it.

Maybe Mr. Purlo will let me work for him while I finish high school. I should make sure that on his next visit he feels good enough to offer.

I don’t know how much Janitor Rusl owes him, just that Mr. Purlo charges seven hundred to fuck one of his girls, one-fifty for a blow-job. He fucks me every Lanasday, 7PM sharp, and I’m nowhere near as worn out as his whores, so it should be worth around the same, ‘cause I’m not as experienced either. I’m spook as fuck, though, and that impacts my inherent value. My cut afterwards is two hundred, and only if I do a good job both before and during. What I do after they’re satisfied only matters to me, and it’s worth a twenty for Rusl to leave the hot water on for me to shower the stink from my skin no matter who it is.

Barnes and Rusl take turns on the weekend. Hanch is normally every second Moonsday. Mr. Purlo’s bodyguard is erratic. I keep notes to help me remember what each of them like, so I can be ready and do it. It keeps a roof over my head and food in my belly, and I get a new outfit every solstice. Not bad for six, maybe six and half hours of work a week. I wasn’t sure about the ass fucking at first, but Calamity, after the first time, I almost feel bad for calling it work.  If I didn’t have to have food and shelter and other shit, I’d do it for free…but it gets me what I need, doing something I like.

Especially with Mr. Purlo. The others are all old, lecherous, and creepy, but he’s only twice my age, fit, healthy, and pure business. Get in, get off, get out. The only thing he cares about is making back what Rusl owes, and Rusl and I have a deal. One year, one month, and three days left for my high school diploma, and my marks are tied for second overall in my class across Castletown. Top three in Hyrule for conjury. I’ll be able to get a scholarship no matter what university I choose, but there’s three months between that and…

“…fucking spook…” One of the quadruplets snarls. I can never remember which one is which, and they’re all so dull it doesn’t really matter who’s using the collective brain anyway. I’m more concerned about the one digging his elbow into my kidney. It hurts almost as much as my throat, but they haven’t gone for my throat and that’s stupid. Just my bag, my eyes, my hair, and now that I’m down, the soft bits of my back between my shoulders and hips.

“Hey.” Link snaps. “Stop it.” He can yap all he wants, but he’s just a voice. He’s not here to help. No one helps, though they sure as shit stay to watch. Not every day there’s free entertainment between classes in the square.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up.” Another quadruplet grunts, kicking my floating ribs. I should never have corrected whichever one gave made up statistics to Professor Mabe, at least not in front of the rest of the class. He was only off by a magnitude of four. One for each broken finger on the wrong hand to do them any good. I’ll still be able to write my finals and fuck up the bell curve they’re relying on to pass. 

“Learn your place, you fucking spook!” The one with a bad grip on my shirt lets go to exchange it for a chance to punch the kidney he’s been poking, and the lights illuminating the Atun University logo on the side of the student center waver.

It’ll rain soon. It always does as the sun sets and the skies cool from brilliant cornflower blue to burning crimson. My luck’s been a spinach-filled skid mark all day, and so I’m not surprised when the truck passes me by, whipping my clothes around my skin without even pausing to consider my outstretched thumb. The next one slows enough to make sure I’m spook before speeding back up. I haven’t even made a quarter of the distance I was hoping today, and the next three vehicles just add to my disappointment. There aren’t many cars left on the road this late at night, and it’s a good while before the flash of headlights behind me gets me to lift my arm instead of my feet.

The dry van is lacking a logo, but the driver’s cap reads “Whole Foods Inc” when I clamber up the side of the clean sleeper cab and glance around. Clean outside, clean inside, no stench of smoke or grease or booze or weed or even the sour waft of rotten food and unwashed clothes. It’s not new, but it is well kept, and that gives me the courage to actually climb in the passenger side door.

“Where you headed, boy?” He asks, voice rough from disuse bursting out from behind an unkempt beard. Long hauler, then.

“Castletown University.” Closing the door gets the blinking red light to turn off, and he’s quiet pulling back onto the highway.

“I got a girl going there. Third year Pharmacy. Classes start pretty soon.” He mumbles, turning the volume dial up.

“Three days.” The Link on the radio agrees before breaking into Linder’s fourth sonata.

“”Why don’t you crawl up top, have a nap? I’ll wake you when we’re at the city limits.” He suggests, reaching for an industrial sized coffee mug.

“You don’t want someone to talk to?” I ask. “Help you stay awake?”

“It’s a short haul today, I’ll be fine. Go on, get some rest.” He insists, honestly. It’s been a long day, and while not the best bed in the world, it’s a far cry better than the open field I was contemplating. I can’t bring myself to sleep – Nayru’s Blessing telling me that would be a bad idea – but I can rest, and I do. He’s true to his word, and when the highway turns into a freeway, pulls the rig to the side of the road at the weigh station and reaches back to shake my leg.

“Castletown.” He tells me over the strains of one of Fado’s violin solos on late night CRN. All night, all classical strings. “Out you go.”

“Alright.” I yawn, and he lets the seat down for me to get out of the bunk, going so far as to walk around and open the door for me.

“That was fast.” I yawn, jumping to the ground and pulling my bag out to sling in on my back. “Thanks for the smooth ride.”

“Don’t say that until you’ve paid.” He rasps as he closes the door, reaching around me to grab my ass.

“You didn’t…” I protest as he kisses me, because that wasn’t part of the agreement. I wouldn’t have gotten in if it was. I’ve only had sex for fun since leaving Castletown, with a few friends, and with a damn condom and plenty of lube. No fucking kissing, either.

“It’s been just over a week.” Link tells him, and he smirks.

“Pretty spook like you should know what’s expected when you hitch rides. Now we can do this the hard way, which I guarantee you’re not going to like, or the easy way, which you probably won’t like either, but you’ll get your I.D. back at the end of it.”

My hands go to my pocket to check, and it’s empty.  No wallet, no identification, nothing to say I’m even legal. I don’t know when he lifted it, but probably when I first got in the bunk. He was awfully helpful keeping me steady. Stupid, Kaya. He won’t take a blowjob for an answer, either.

With the gravel of the ditch softer than I expect and a condom from my bag around his cold, hard cock, I learn not to trust kindness. It seems to expand inside of me, a remote bomb of chilled lust, undeniably cruel and calculated. Waiting to shatter, and destroy everything it touches.

“Yeah, boy, yeah. You’re good at this.” Panting, he speeds up. “Feels so good.” He shudders. “Take that load.” It’s only after the explosion that I realize somewhere along the road he’s stealthed me, completing the violation. He wipes himself off on my braid and gets back in the cab before I can bring myself to move. Feel it squish.

Now empty wallet and I.D. in hand, his cooling jizz soaking my underwear, I watch him drive off towards the warehouses. I need to be downtown, and have a damn good reminder of the first thing I learned after leaving Prince Eran’s service.

Hylians, especially Hylians in Castletown, will _always_ fuck you over, and get away clean.

Dusty from days on the road, dirty from the mud and dead grass of the ditch, sticky and sore and ashamed and aching, I start walking towards downtown Castletown. Pull my converter from my bag and put it on. I’ve learned. I won’t hitchhike again, even if it means walking for hours. Won’t trust easily again, even if it means turning away honest strangers, and walking for hours more. Walk through the dried-blood rust of the industrial areas, the tidy little deceptively green surface of suburban sprawls, the soulless gray business district, and into the occluded indigo downtown core. Walk until I can’t stand it anymore, and run.

Run, run, run. Run until the pain in my legs disappears and the pain in my throat makes me choke on it. Run some more. Despite clearly marked signs I can no longer read leading me to the heart of the city, darkness closes in like a blanket. Smothering me on all sides, thick as tar and black as sin, while gargantuan Gohmas skitter just out of sight. I can hear them, feel their uncountable eyes gorging into my marrow as the world drops away, leaving only the road, and the sounds, and the dark.

It’s so dark, and so very cold the sky’s weeping stars settle into snow that tastes like the ashes of forgotten dreams. I cannot outrun the coming storm. That doesn’t mean I won’t try. I can’t see where I’m going when the scrape of asphalt turns to creaking snow and the howling hollow winds chase my burning copper breath and steal into my lungs, steel my heart, freeze the brittle glass shards of my soul. It’s so cold. So very cold. I shiver sharp enough to cut painlessly, and in the clear chill find the road free of snow and cobbled in corpses. Some of whom I recognize. Most I don’t, their smooth ceramic masks keeping me from that, keeping me on the trail of the destiny that’s been laid out for me.

I turn. Signs spring up like tombstones, neon bright and glaring. It’s the way I should go, the path determined, silent and solemn and dead. Sheikah have no fear of death, and I don’t. I don’t. But this is not true death, for there is no life for which death is simply the other side, inevitable. This is unnatural. No rot, no return, no renewal. Stagnant. Wrong. Corrupt. I fear. Greatly. There is no other way marked.

There is always another way. If you can’t see it, you aren’t looking hard enough.

I step into the snow that took Eran from us all, and sink. Down. Down into the cold. Colder than cold. Cold until it burns with glacial melt running in my veins. The darkness takes my breath, crushing me as my air solidifies in frozen fog and hissing ice. This too, is Nayru’s element. Oceans deeper than a Zora can swim. Here, where Din’s flames birth continents and swallow others, there is life, and Farore smiles. They are triumphant. Air, Fire, Water. They purify.

“I’m sorry.” The words echo in the primordial syrup of the great Rift at the bottom of the world, and I latch onto them, let them pull me up and up and up.

I surface, wanting to cough and unable to do so, in a private hospital room with my _domine_ pacing the length of the tiles and snarling into my phone while great golden arcs of aether flicker the electronics every time he passes. His purpose in this incarnation has manifested, and from the umbral edges of Farore’s Joy, I don’t think I’m going to like it very much. I also don’t have the energy to cope with further anything. The blanket covering me from chin to toe is plastered with healing spell-work designed to mimic that of the Fountain Fairies as they go from endangered to critically endangered, and like any Mimic there are a lot of unexpected consequences, generally doing more harm than good.

If it had stayed at the awful blended brew of nightmares of memories, I’d count myself lucky. If it had killed me outright – draining me of my magic and then, when that ran out, my life – I’d be able to accept it. That I can see it stealing Link’s magic in an effort to repair the damage I took literally at Mallar’s hand just pisses me off. There are six…no, seven circles of transference, and not one of them is filled by any type of catalyst, fetish, orb, charm, amulet, or mage.

Not _one._

The blanket can’t help but draw on him, the spell is simply running its course as it was created to do. He’s upset enough that he hasn’t noticed the pull, or has so much energy that the draw is insignificant. Good fucking crap on a cracker I hope it’s the first option. That’s less frightening than the second, which scares me more than the fact someone used this blanket on me either without knowing what it does or with the intent to kill.

This is a teaching hospital, the first is possible, but not probable. You need authority to access this level of treatment, which makes the second option is much more likely. It’d be a simple thing to hide under accidents or misuse of available tools and blame it on students. Spirits of Mercy acting without explicit consent are just murderers preying on the ill and injured. I wouldn’t be surprised that one works in the emergency department. If they only target unconscious spooks, I wouldn’t be surprised that they haven’t been caught. Link…has saved me again, just by being who and what he is, even if that’s some sort of heroic Hylian cryptid with a damn sexy ass.

Somehow, that pisses me off the most. At least if I’m mad I can’t be terrified. I pick anger, if only to keep from hyperventilating. Anger, and a bit of ironic sarcasm at the absurdity of existence, because that’s How I Cope 101.

Not at him. It’s not his fault I need saving. That’s on me, for being a stupid, overly self-reliant, arrogant little shitlord of a spook. He can’t help being handsome and perfect and a fucking hero. The Hero. The _fucking_ Hero. Link is the Hero of the coming Age, and I’m bound to him by sex and blood and magic and promises made to the Three. Through Dreams that are more real than my senses can convey.

Words fail me, in every language I have ever had even a passing acquaintance with.

“Alright. Thank you. Yes. I’ll keep you updated.” He promises, all staccato teeth and crisp metallic orange ire. Conversation ended, he continues to stalk the seven steps across the room restlessly, three and a half of which I can see, three and a half that the fabric curtain keeps hidden. Back and forth with metronome precision. It’s harder to breathe when I can’t see him on the far side, and not because I miss him or anything. The blanket of restorative spell work currently healing my throat of Mallar’s grip has less to draw on the further he gets from it, and burned through my meager reserves long ago.

I wonder, would I have dreamt of my death without him here, instead of simply being cold and in pain? Reliving the nightmares of my life in all their harsh, unforgiving glory? Had I died in dreams, who would be able to step in and take my place at his side for the coming storm? There is no Hero when there is no need, after all. Can I stand at his side? Am I capable? Is that…my purpose?

The first Hero had his Spirit Sword. The Hero of Time is said to have alternately had both a fairy companion and a guide, though even the most respected scholars cannot say which it was, or if it was both. The Hero of Twilight had a spelled shard of Twilit magic that allowed him to speak to animals and understand their languages. The Hero of Champions, only five hundred years ago, had the strength of the strongest of each of the Tribes bequeathed unto him, and the backing of their leaders.

My people, exiles within our own homeland, were still too few and too scattered to be counted a Tribe, the bloodlines too impure, and split into factions. We, instead, gave him command of a form of magic that owes nothing to nature, to grace, or to art. Mechanical, impersonal, contrived, had he been aether-dead, he still could have used the slate resting in the Hyrule National Treasury. In attempting to keep that soulless technology from destroying society, we fled. In attempting to save that society from our own corrupted technology, we gave it strength. It lives in a thousand ways, from our phones and our slates and our personal Rune applications to our vehicles and our chemists and our communications. Even here, machines and magic work together to keep me physically balanced with no more than the push of a button.

My people’s price for our failure is the use of our magic and technology against us. The converters. The Witchfinders. The identification system. The hate. That artificial separation keeps me from trusting him, and keeps him unsure of me. No one is born hating. Like stupidity, it’s learned.

Can I stand beside him, and break that barrier?  It’s an interesting question. Find a question. Create a hypothesis. Develop a testable prediction, and test it. Refine. Repeat. Can I stand? First test, sitting up.

The elastic holding what I thought was an oxygen mask over my face is apparently for a ventilator tube thrust down my throat instead, which explains why the inside feels as raw as the outside. I’m lying on my own hair. An intravenous drip fouls the range of motion of my left hand. The recovery blanket saps my strength. Goddess damned fucking bitch kitties, it shouldn’t be this difficult to get vertical, and as the blanket slides down to my lap, it gets easier.

The motion sets off the Re-Dead wail of an alarm, but with less pelvic thrusting. I’m up, though. Test one, success. Formulating second test.

“Kaya!” Link yelps, and I know he’s upset because of his flares and he never uses my name unless _something_ he considers monumental is happening. “What are you doing?! Lie down, you idiot!” I knew he was fast, thought I was faster, but he just appears and wraps his arms around my torso and leans. Lowering me to the crinkling plastic hospital mattress that prevents a multitude of biological sins from being passed from one patient to the next.  Not letting go once I’m flat on my back again. “I thought I’d lost you.” He whispers, soft edges in robin’s egg blue.

Amazing how effective a plastic tube holding your esophagus open is at not letting you speak.

Circumstances being what they are, I keep my deep sigh purely internal and do my best to pat his back with my good hand, which is mostly caught between his torso and mine. Awkward as a Goron at a Zora diving competition, and now I’m really lying on my hair. Bloody Calamity. He straightens up suddenly, breaking my embrace, and I’m almost offended until I see the shimmer in his eyes and hear the door to the room open to let in medical personnel. It’s not me, it’s them. I’ve at least earned the right to witness his tears. He raises the blanket and tucks it back around me and the nurse I remember as being slightly less of a threat pops his head around the curtain.

“What in…?” He snarls, and shoves Link away from the bed in a controlled push, yanking the blanket off me and throwing it with all the fury he didn’t use on my _domine_ against the wall. It crumples and – deprived of skin-on-skin contact – ceases to function. Leaving me in my birthday suit and bruises and not much else that doesn’t involve glue and something to be glued. “Look at me.” He demands, waving a hand in front of my face as a precursor to a thorough physical check-up that leaves me just as exhausted as the damn blanket, and cold to boot.

Link stands out of the way and quiet, letting the nurse do his thing. Mija. Nurse Mija, according to the name tag. R.N. Since he recognized the danger the damn blanket posed and took care of it, took care of the gawkers and the gossipers and one of his fellow nurses the last time I was here, I’m inclined to let him do what he wants. Link doesn’t seem quite as magnanimous, and growls softly the entire time. When I start shivering, they get louder.

“You can let me do my job, or I’ll have security take you out.” Mija says, calm as cloudless day.

“He’s shivering. Let me at least put the blanket back on.” Link returns, cool as ice.

“You put that blanket on him I’ll charge you with assault. Further assault.” That glare is impressive. I try and memorize the proportions of it for later use. Link’s surprise is pretty much all that keeps Mija from pressing the nice red button next to my headboard labelled “Emergency. Security.” Then he gets as fucking noble as the memorial statues lining the route to Zora’s Domain and just as dense, and steps closer to me, and the button is pushed before he can get the first arm out of his jacket. The security guards have to have been standing right outside my door to arrive as quickly as they do.

“Nurse Mija?” The one hospital security guards asks, with two uniformed T.A.R.G.E.T. officers flanking him. Majora’s Wrath. At least they’re all male, so my junk hanging out in the open isn’t something new. And at least they’re T.A.R.G.E.T., not A.R.G. I’ve had enough A.R.G. to last me a lifetime, while the one interaction I’ve had with T.A.R.G.E.T. officers restored some of my faith in law enforcement actually committing justice on occasion. After a bit of a stand-off stare-down, Nurse Mija gives some sort of signal that I can’t see but makes the tension ratchet down a full cranking twist.

“Can you grab some of the warmed blankets and a gown for our patient? Size oh one. Two officers should be sufficient to restrain Lord Korokshire should it be required.” The last is said looking directly at Link, who nods, puts his jacket back on, and goes to stand between them against the wall at the foot of the bed.

“I won’t hurt him. I would never hurt him.” Link swears. “I just wanted to give him something to wear.”

“Which is why he’s been in my emergency department with mild to moderate injuries consistent with domestic abuse twice in the last week. Try me again.” Mija, still balanced and sounding perfectly fucking reasonable, rolls his eyes, and I narrow mine. Despite trying to comfort Link as best I could, despite lying still for the inspection, I haven’t given up on my anger, and it flares to new life at the direct implication that Link has been abusing me. I’ve been spook my entire life, and lived with the Donavitchs for almost a year. Survived, too. Link is their exact opposite.

Fuck not talking. I’ve had enough dicks down my throat to know the tube can’t be longer than twenty-five centimeters, and have swallowed enough spunk to keep from gagging too badly as I pull it out. I still gag a bit, it’s been in there a lot longer than any cock or combination of cocks has, and there’s more mucus than I anticipate, but I don’t choke on it. I do want to throw up, but that’s not new, either.

“Insufficient evidence for that particular conclusion, don’t you think?” I rasp. “Maybe try asking, next time.” Good shit talking hurts. It feels like I’ve swallowed crushed glass and some of the shards are stuck, but it’s my job to be my master’s defense. His last defense, if it comes to that. Test number two, complete.

“Please try not to talk, Sheik Lurelin.” Mija sighs, actually using my title. Appropriately. “I apologize for my assumptions. A new nurse will be sent to attend to you.” He hangs his head, disappointment and self-recrimination coloring his every motion, and that’s no good either. I grab his cotton Castletown Crusaders scrubs and tug, firmly. Shake my head when he looks at me. Working in an emergency room – an inner city emergency room at that – he probably sees enough domestic abuse that his conclusion, garnered from experience, isn’t unreasonable.

It’s just not the case in this particular instance.

“I was aggressive to a guest of a patient, and laid false accusations. It is hospital policy that a new nurse be assigned and a report filed.” He tells me.

“You’re sorry?” I croak out, sounding like a ninety-year old smoker with a pack a day habit for the last seventy years. I know he is, melancholy blue and resolve gold scream it louder than I could hope to…which admittedly isn’t hard right now. The question is if he knows he feels sorry for an honest mistake.

“I am.” He nods. “It won’t happen again.” He promises.

“Stay, then. Please.” Link urges, catching Mija’s attention once more. He smiles, and I wonder what else I’ve soaked up as a by-product of this entire mess when I see the forgiveness in his eyes and know that the same shit just came out of my mouth. Different pile, sure, but it’s the same Farore Blessed kindness that my _domine_ has shown from day one. I don’t have the luxury of being _kind_ , but there it is. “Sheik likes you, and he’s not easily impressed.”

What flattery. It happens to be true, but it’s still flattery none-the-less. By the time Mija does leave, I have a flimsy back-less gown on, my braid over my shoulder, a nice warm blanket that’s just a fucking blanket, and my _domine_ feeding me jello and broth single-handedly while the other holds my own. His grip is loose, but warm, and does more for my comfort than the pseudo-clothing and blanket put together. The recovery spell-blanket is gone with enough murder in Mija’s eyes that I know someone will probably be suspended for either gross negligence or patient endangerment, and that’s good enough for me.

The T.A.R.G.E.T. officers haven’t moved though, so convincing Link I wouldn’t be adverse to a little more than handholding while not being able to talk is as likely as me suddenly dyeing my hair black with purple streaks and going full punk-goth. Not going to happen, though it does make me wonder about how Kahti’s doing. The detailed pants and mesh shirts would look fantastic on him. I haven’t texted him since I missed Temple.

Tugging my blanket up does get me my phone, but there’s so little battery left that turning on the screen sends me warning messages. Link has the good graces to look embarrassed, but explains what he needed it for and what he did with it, and I can’t get upset at that. I literally can’t. I don’t have the energy. Another check-in by a different nurse just over an hour after supper, and I’m pronounced well enough to sleep, though not well enough to leave. As a visitor, Link has to.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.” He promises, kissing my disgusting forehead. The new nurse – under the watchful eyes of two new T.A.R.G.E.T. officers and an irritated doctor – puts something in my intravenous drip to help me sleep before I can refuse it. I fight it, literally tooth and nail as I grind my jaw and fist the sheets in an effort to stay awake, but it’s not a battle I can win.

There is never a Hero when there is no need. That hypothesis has only been reaffirmed over the millennia. The evil he is to battle will reveal itself soon, and I’d best be ready for it, because I’m his Sheik. I’m his. I’ll be there at his side no matter what, and I’d rather not fail the most important test of my life.

That’s the last airheaded idea to float through my impaired brain before the darkness swallows me, just like it will swallow Hyrule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YoiteMichealis - Okay this time I actually am sorry for the strain this chapter puts on the feels.  
> Ra92 - ...yay Continuous Traumatic Stress Disorder?


End file.
